Hey, my name's Deborah. You can call me Debz :)
Just a 20 year-old girl waiting for the right guy...
That guy that every girl knows...
Who visits her in her dreams, roaming her subconscious mind but never materialises...
*sigh* I guess this is an outlet for my romantic ramblings, and other things that traverse my mind :3
All my posts are mine unless stated otherwise ;)
Did I mention that I'm staying a virgin 'til I get married?? Apparently that's rare these days... :/

Waiting For Love...

and other things ;)

Missing Someone

We pay with hollow mornings.

Woken by the absence of
warmth experienced when
reaching out to simply touch, to
feel the special someone that should
be there to make the morning good by
starting it off with a forehead kiss,
but instead the intangible hands
of chilling air massage
the extended arm.
We pay with lonely nights.

The kind spent sprawled
- motionless -
atop cold, unmade bedsheets,
shrouded in silence and darkness,
whilst staring up at the ceiling, the screen
on which memories of precious times
are projected by our minds through
the lenses of eyes that leak
mute tears.
We pay with unfinished conversations.

Those that begin in dreams,
a mixture of recollections and sub-
conscious hopes for the future weaved
into one, allowing a seemingly short moment
of contentment, stretched over the space of slumbering
hours to weaken the grip of desperation knotted
around our hearts and necks, but as the climax
approaches the presence of reality phases
out fantasies and leaves disappointment.
We are refunded with the sound of snoring.

Be it audibly shallow breaths or the
type that sounds like unsuccessful choking,
the joy of having them back within arm’s reach
shadows thoughts of wanting to place a pillow upon
their face, lightly slapping them awake and quickly pretending
to have been asleep, or whispering how much we had
missed them - their nearness, the twinkle in
their eyes, the sensation brought about by the
notes hit in their laughter
- into their ears.
We are refunded with pleasing sights.

Hair, tousled from tossing and
turning in the night, looking sexy
or just plain ridiculous; the curve of
smiling lips; the slight differences, coupled
with unchanged features in their appearance, compared
to the mental snapshot taken the day
that they turned on their heel
and paused for a moment
before walking away.
We are refunded without unforeseen complications.

If you love someone, set them free.
If they come back, it was meant to be.

Words previously disbelieved dance to the beat
of our hearts on the dissipating clouds of our minds
and fall, like summer rain, onto cheeks as that special
someone wipes them away with the nub of a thumb,
licks them as though they are droplets
of the purest water, or kisses them
as though they are diamonds.

Missing someone costs us nothing if they return and stay…

How You Caught Me… (Part 1 of 2)

Posted this yesterday but this was something I felt I needed to say even though he will never hear it.
Read along if you wish:

You had me the very moment
you voiced your feelings for me
- your face sincere, oozing vulnerability -
with unwavering eyes whispering ‘Accept me…
as an invisible thread loosely tied your heart to mine.

Shy glances were exchanged,
tender hugs given and received,
warmth conveyed to parts of me that
I didn’t know could feel heat so deliciously,
and the notable heartbeat that echoed
within my body at the mere sight of your smile.

You always made me laugh,
you were sad when you saw me cry
or even just a little teary-eyed
because of the weather,
your reactions were cute,
your heart was kind;
slowly but surely
you seeped into my mind.

We never held hands,
we only touched when we
embraced and that one time
when I attempted to kiss your cheek,
after you had kissed mine, but
somehow managed to lay my lips
where your jaw meets your neck;
my thought became reality -
I felt you shiver against me.

Almost everyday you would send
me a text message, a sweet statement,
about how you felt about me -
You’re beautiful, Debz.’
I like seeing you smile.’
I love you.’

The way you pulled me
into your arms when I feigned
indifference; the way we’d talk
for hours at a time; the way you asked
me to wait for you; the way you told me
that you’d be the first one to kiss my virgin lips.

…And How You Slipped Away (Part 2 of 2)

Read along if you wish:

I wrote you a poem,
the second poem I had
ever written solely for one
person, packed with responses to
unanswered questions that left me
bare and wanting your acceptance.
I sent it in a text message ending with
the words, ‘I love you’, because I felt
that in time… I would.

That’s nice :)
Sorry, I don’t have
any sweet things to say today :P
You threw me a ball that I wasn’t aware
would curve and hit me right in the chest.
(…Strike one…)

Your mother died and
your father wasn’t around.
The distance between us didn’t
allow my feelings, expressed in
plain, restrictive text to console
you in the way that the warmth of a
close voice, a hug, a kiss, could.

Hour long phone calls became
less frequent, silence laced with
uncertainty filled the gaps between
the sparse words we shared until eventually,
my phone never rang with tone I had set for you;
I could feel you slipping away…
(…Strike two…)

I quickly learned that the
sixth sense of a woman was both
a gift and a curse, one which I didn’t
know I had until you and I no longer stood
on the same soil, but I knew that I had to set
you free from me; I knew that as a young, teenage
boy, you would not be able to wait for me when
the promise of a girl with open legs presented
itself; I knew that ‘we' couldn't be.
I pushed you out of my heart,
slamming and locking, and
slamming and locking
each door you had
pried open and
yet, hurt
had made
a home.
(…Strike three…)
You’re out.

A Rose Without Thorns

Read along if you wish:

Made paper-thin by the weight of her love,
the men in her heart became like flowers
pressed between the pages of a book.

Her heart held reminders that the men she had loved
were not meant to leave; a rip where one turned
his thorns against her instead of using them
to protect her; a stain where another bled
blue blood out into the fibres of pages
that both supported and crushed him,
dying her in his essence; an
outline of petals, carved
by hands belonging to
the one that got

Chambers, weary from hurt and disappointment,
secreted blood from open wounds with each
passing pump, running over marred flesh,
over areas that retained the lingering
warmth of those who left, failing to
erase the pain that kept her from
healing her tattered heart -
she couldn’t handle

She threw herself off of her cliff-hanged heart,
unwilling to experience another encounter with
love in a world where men would not return
her feelings, and closed her eyes as she
descended into a mental state that
understood a life without love,
ready to replace her heart
with a void, only to feel
a tug around her ankles as
she was hoisted up out of darkness,
back onto the cliff’s edge by invisible
hands that warmed her lonely spirit, caressed
her fragile heart, and guided her to an unscathed
segment of her heart that held a budding rose.

In her time of need he called out to her,
speaking in a language known by hearts,
abandoned by tongues afraid to communicate
vulnerabilities, innermost weaknesses, due to
fear of being defenseless infront of a person who
has come close enough to touch their soul - he spoke
the language of Love, a language never heard by her ears
that allowed her to cry the tears that needed to fall, the
tears that would revitalise her worn heart and enable her
to resume her story with a man as rare as a rose without thorns.

Combined Tears

She refused to cry,
Seeing it as materilised weakness
That could seep from the ducts of her eyes.
She wanted to remain strong,
Strong in a world that was filled
With all kinds of wrong,
Where wars were not always won by the just;
Where people bore battle-scars dealt by so-called friends turned foes;
Where the seed of love had little chance to germinate in the Earth’s crust.

She refused to cry,
Unwilling to release torrents for anyone again
After her parents had died.
She wanted to fill the void in her chest,
The void in her chest, shaped like a heart,
under the skin of her left breast;
Hollowed out like a rotting tree,
Innards crumbling,
Ceasing to resemble what it used be.

She refused to cry,
As she was left all alone
Without even so much as a goodbye.
She wanted to remember her parent’s love,
Love that was felt in the protective arms of her father’s embrace, or her mother’s kiss,
That made her wish for nothing more from the stars above;
That made her dream of giving her children her everything;
That made her hope to find a love that could equal it
And make her heart sing.

She refused to cry,
Even when the guy who had grown to love her
Pleaded with her to release the demons inside.
He held her face and lightly ran his fingers over the bags of her eyes,
Eyes as dark as shadows cast by craters on the moon,
As his lips met her forehead, her hands trembling at her sides.
Then it happened… drip after drop, they fell from up high,
Rolling down past her eyebrows and over the crevices of her eyes - his tears
For her - and she could no longer hold back, allowing their tears to combine.

I write of wanting to be held in fervent embraces
and dream of being swept up in a whirlwind romance
that doesn’t leave me torn and broken in its telling traces,
but when a guy actually shows interest,
be it small or be it large,
I shy away - an inborn reflex
from God knows where -
placing a distance between he and I,
even more so when I think I know we can’t be a compatible pair,
and when I do like a guy
inside my stomach swarms sensations
that fluctuate like the wings of a butterfly
whenever he’s near me,
and when he’s far
his voice alone coming through the phone would be
enough to rouse me, sending warm tingles
from the crown of my head to the soles of my feet
that casually mingles
in my body,
pulsating along with my heartbeat.

Still, I might push him away
because I’m reluctant to let people truly in
and when I realise that his words make me sway
and he notices little things about me
I feel annoyed…
even though I shouldn’t be.

Patience is a virtue.” - I know that much is true,
but it’ll have to be exercised profusely
as there isn’t much I can do
without being tempted to make motions under bedsheets
when pursuing a relationship between me and you.

I used to imagine things I may do,
in future, when I am
an independent young woman who
is no longer Daddy’s little lamb,
like sitting in the corner of a coffee shop,
swamped by the smell of a beverage I don’t even have a taste for,
wearing blue jeans, flats, and a turtleneck top,
sipping some tea as I keep watchful eyes on the door,
notebook open and pen in hand,
as though inspiration would waltz right in
in the form of an attractive man
whose eyes would find mine and my mind would commit lustful sins.

In reality,
I sit in my room, on my bed, dressed in shorts and a vest
with the scent of hot chocolate deliciously
wafting into my nostrils as I inhale deeply, raising my chest
as I lean into the lifeless arms of my over-sized bear, pressing
it against the wall behind me,
my tired eyes resting
on the ceiling where inspiration must be
because it always hits me when I’m being enticed by sleep
with images of mysterious men,
mystical places, marvellous heaps
of scenes of people and things worthy of being penned
but fighting sleep is a tedious feat
so as I slumber I dream of finding that inspiration again.

Ms. Rodgers

She was my favourite English teacher and the best,
having shown me the wondrous world of prose and poetry
which had previously
been hidden from me
due to the half-assed, quick-tempered teacher
who was easily riled by pre-pubescent pranks
and laughter,
shamefully so,
ultimately lacking the fervour for the art,
and had taught my class for the first two years of my secondary education,
essentially draping the lure of the written word from me.

But Ms. Rodgers…
She was, at first impression, strict and straight-forward,
poised and prepped,
well-dressed and had the most piercing stare.

She was well-versed in literature
and well-acquainted with many, many
dictionaries and thesauruses
that formed a neat row along the front of her desk.

She had the ability to slice and silence us
with only her words
which summoned respect, admiration,
additionally for me,
slight intimidation
at how pure, clean English
could deliver the punch of swear words.

Her passion scalding me in the most helpful way,
burning off the metaphorical scab
that had clustered over
and refrained me from truly experiencing
how amazing words can be.

To her, I will always be grateful.

Agent Spencer Reid

I love the way you deconstruct scenes and analyse crimes
with the information you’ve gained through reading books from before your time;
the way you examine every detail, seemingly meaningless,
in the walls of your mind
and provide the team with clues, now pieced together and perfectly aligned;
the way you get carried away when giving explanations to
people that don’t have the same wealth of knowledge as you,
and they look at you, either perplexed or bemused,
until someone stops you before your head blows a fuse.

These things that you do,
the quirks and qualities of you,
make me want to shove you onto a chair
and straddle you, burying my fingers in your hair,
dressed in my silk underwear,
just to see if I can shut you up - completely speechless -
without you opening your mouth for nervous, needless
chitter-chatter about the laws of physics or attraction
when I would like you to take some action,
preferably a sexual reaction,
so I can see another side of you.

Reading You

With closed eyes and a hesitant heart
I run trembling fingers across the
Bumps, bruises, and scars
Of your skin
Like it’s Braille, as I am blind,
Truly oblivious, to the many
Stories, monologues, and poems unspoken,
Stamped and etched into
Your bare flesh.

I bite back sobs and restrain tears
That ache for release
As my fingertips roam the landscape of
Your body,
Mentally mapping the marks that seem
To grow deeper on descent and
I can only imagine the dark tales behind them
But I’m scared to let my mind wander,
Halting halfway through,
Only to have you
Grasp my hands, returning my touch
To where I stopped in the story
Of you.

The intimacy of your action,
The bravery of it,
Wanting me to continue,
Is the dynamite to my dam of tears,
Flowing freely down my cheeks
As I read you -
Fresh lacerations wet my fingers,
Jagged, thick scars make my soul weep,
Tender bruises cause my mind to wonder “When?” and “Why?”.

I find your eyes shut when I open mine,
My reading now complete,
I slide my tongue over your scars
And kiss your cuts chronologically
As you shiver against me.
I glance at my hands,
Hands that have glimpsed at your history,
Forming between us a link,
Finding them covered in blood and ink.

Forever and Tomorrow

Touch me as though I am
an undiscovered island,
filled with treasures for you to claim,
with an oasis at my centre
containing undisturbed water in which
you shall bathe.

Kiss me softly, kiss me sweet,
allowing me to enjoy the tenderness
of your lips,
then turn the tables and harness their
fullness, your fluid tongue, your pearly teeth,
kissing me so fiercely that you have to hold me by my hips.

Be near me when I need you most
in those times where ordinary embraces, with
a little extra warmth and that
oh so gentle squeeze, induce an
onslaught of much needed tears
that make eyes redden and swell, seemingly fat.

Listen to me as I listen to you,
my words going in one ear and not exiting out
the other when the conversation goes bust,
simply confront me
and shoot unchallengeable counter-arguements;
it may spark some lust.

Do things to me, teach this virgin body,
easing me into your experience
with deliberately slow, feathery caresses,
or throw me straight in at the deep end,
ploughing me without pause like a starved savage
until full with hands tugging at my tresses.

Do all these things and more as though
our forever ends tomorrow.


There are moments where I cry,
wishing for this particular grain of sand
to land
at the bottom of the hourglass of Time.

There are moments where all I want to do is
wallow in the darkness of my room,
overwhelmed by an impending sense of gloom;
a lock upon the door ensuring that silence is my only companion.

There are moments where I want to laugh,
choking on varied frequency bursts of air
with watery-eyes that dare
to spill - the best medicine, so people say.

There are moments where I want to infect
every being I come across with a smile
because I feel truly happy, if only for a while,
and I would like to make a difference to their day.

There are moments where I long for a man
to tame the curious, sex freak
that trolls about my mind, wanting to play the adult version of trick-or-treat
with an imaginary guy that will pleasure her once I’m asleep.

There are moments where I want to share more of myself with people
yet I inwardly shy away,
raising a wall - a defence mechanism that often comes into play -
but fortunately it didn’t stop me today.

That Look You Gave Me…

That look…
Heated by an unknown desire
Aimed at me,
Tasering me with a jolt resembling lust.

Longing lives in those eyes…
Oh so intense, so unyielding,
Openly examining me from head-to-toe and back again,
Knowingly tempting me with unseen possibilities.

You turned and walked away…
Obviously unaware of how your
Unprovoked gaze rendered me defenseless.

Game, set, and match…
All I could do was stare after you, hoping to
Verify what had happened by the betrayal of a smirk or smile -
Evidence that failed to materialise.

My body was ablaze despite your cold, uncaring expression…
Embarrassed and amused I thought to myself,
You shouldn’t be allowed to do that in church