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 ;)

Something For Valentine’s Day (1)

These petals need to be crimson,
Your lips are barely blue,
She’s bleeding you of love,
But these roses are too few.

Your eyes don’t flicker for a second,
They just fluctuate in hue,
How much more love could you possibly give,
Without dehydrating the fabric of you?

These petals are now rich in red,
You’ve bled past Valentine’s curfew,
She’s loved up and seated on Cupid’s cloud,
Eating chocolate-tipped stars as she watches you.

Your love is still seeping,
She could care less about you,
You have given until your drip ran dry,
And she hasn’t the faintest clue.

Two must seek to give,
Reciprocate more times than a few,
So that Love may go from A to B
And back again, refreshed and anew.

Heartbreak Doctor

Apply the balm of
your clinical caresses
and sedate me with
your narcotic kiss.
A lethal mix of tongue,
teeth and adrenaline,
is necessary
for this.

Tranquilise the rest
of me too, make my body
resonate with the
thrum I feel down there,
so I won’t have the strength
to conjure his face over
yours as you suture my heart
using truths whispered with care.

These words are the thread woven
in and out of torn tissue with each
thrust of your average-size needle;
you finish by pouring glue between
the puckered, engorged flesh and
(it burns) as you bandage me
in antiseptic arms—- I wonder
about how things could’ve been.

Who Else But You?

He didn’t have the common decency
to break me as most would, with
poorly-placed pauses and whispered
words drowned out by internal
screams and the shattering of
marble dreams, instead
he shut me down
with ‘It’s not you, it’s me
and threw away the bloody key,
which landed in a place I dare not reach…

And so, my legs walked their way
to your forever open bedroom door
because who else but you
could cup my heart in their hands
as though it was the face
of someone who had stopped breathing?
You resuscitated it, from pale-blue and
barely beating to ruby-red
and fearfully teetering towards an attack
that would be complete fault of my own,
keeping the pace of *inhale*—-*exhale*
as you filled me with unsaid romantic words,
stitched together in lyrical verse fit
for jazz songs, and fantasies made to be
poetically spoken, in hopes that this one-sided
routine could maybe become a tango
of tongues between your Bourbon lips.

You replaced the wisps of mundane
on which I lived with
billows of Life founded on a love
I never knew you capable of conceiving
and in doing so, fettered me to you
as the suggestive roll of your hips
conjured imaginings that tickled my
stomach, dissolving dead butterflies
and waking the moths that dwelled there.

And so again, who else but you
could I be referring to when
I’m on my knees, praying
in a room of paintings and cherubim,
Please… Let me love him…

Different Kinds Of ‘Sorry’ (ii)

The kind that starts
with the removal of
clothes discarded
like wrapping paper
to reveal the imperfect
figurine stores hesitate
to sell — with her
becoming curves and
her doe eyes darting while
her hands move to cover
what she deems unsightly, her
not-so-angular face flushed
as she awaits the touch of words
that will either scar her or
save her from inner demons
that mock her with ‘Fee Fi Fo Fum's;
she will doubt, ‘You are beautiful’,
because Tom, Dick, and Harry used
the exact same line, but
her soul will respond to
the sincerity in unwavering eyes,
allowing love to be shown to her body
- inside and out -
in a way that embodies reverence
and a ‘sorry’ that wasn’t yours to say…

A brief moment? Please, I
Want nothing more than to gaze
Into your eyes again, and I want
Nothing less than a look in my
Direction. They say that eyes are the windows
Of the soul so let me search for the smidgen of emotion that
Will act as my buoy, because I’m drowning in the sea
Of my own tears… Each act of indifference
From you turns insignificant trickles into unforgiving torrents,
Ostracising me from myself with the resulting whirlpool that
Plunges me… into a consuming darkness…
Oh please a cold glare would suffice, I would be the
Recipient of the sweetest frostbite,
Trembling from the attention while shivering for warmth,
Unperturbed by the
Numbness I’m sure to feel…
If you would only give me a chance, a fleeting glance
To let me know you feel something for me,
Yet you never grant me a window of opportunity.

Different Kinds Of ‘Sorry’ (i)

The kind where she gazes
up and into you,
seeking your soul with
crescent eyes that
glisten like droplets of rain
upon leaves in the wake
of a shower, illuminated
by moonshine;
she bites down to impede
lips that tremble like
new-born lambs and
one can’t help but notice
that she needs this
- your forgiveness -
so that the lunar cycle
of her eyes can
phase to full moons.

He lies on top of me
in such a way that there
isn’t a space between us,
save for a hair’s breadth
distancing our lips.

Eyelashes interlock
the way our fingers
would if his hands
were not either side of
my head and
I could swear that
he has no soul
because the windows of
his eyes are too dark
for there to be something
on the other side.

He is inside of me
but not in the way that
lover’s do it—- he
fills me, albeit momentarily,
like a ghost passing through
matter - there but not
there yet here, there,
and everywhere.

I feel him —- his
molecules pairing with
mine and dancing
to the tune of my heart-
beat backed by the bass of
his dark undertones;
"…You make me feel alive…"

I slowly awaken
and experience a
full-body tingle
as the pull of reality
fights the pull of
subconscious things
to remove from me
the presence of a being
whose essence
was the stuff of dreams.

Message In A Bottle

I can only hope
that every
tremulous touch
and cautious kiss,
each sweeping caress
that was a statement of bliss
travels through the waves of
pleasure caused by the
ripple effect of my
fingers across
the stretch
of your skin
—- like a message
in a bottle
tossed out
to sea —- in hopes that
they will convey what my
words cannot as they permeate
into the fabric of your thought so
you can realise just how much
I love you.

Dropped You Like A Mobile Phone


the way a mobile phone is
when its owner releases it mere
inches away from a close, solid
surface and so freefalls to
a possible break or end.


were her ‘mobile phone’ weren’t you?
Constantly cradled in the crib
of the palm of her hand, screen
stroked and poked, volume switched
from high to low, buttons pushed


you were her personal remote control…
and you allowed her to watch all of
her favourite channels without
so much as an over-usage toll;
she played with you like


girl too young to care for her
toys would play with a doll,
bending you, almost breaking
you, straining you into
stress; you were a mess


to her in more ways than one.
She made you vibrate and ring
with preset tones that she
had downloaded, hard-coded in
your bones… Now she wants another


one with more functions
and features, an appealing
creature who will replace
you who lays flat, broken and
battered on her living room floor.

Poetically Profound’s Stay Today


This future neutered
My past unable to find a potential suitor
Yet my presence
Shining through as my own ruler
The enemy is incognito
But knows not of cognitive worth
I’ve been conscious since birth
Find myself fetal
Upon being thrust to this earth
Spiritual residual
But I’m literally hurt
Either conceived to die or born to live
An unabridged excerpt
But between blurred lines
And worn out spines
I have something to say
I just need to be opened
Softly spoken
Caressed page after page
Sure, there’s darkness and there’s despair
Times I’ve been broken, times I’ve been scared
But in the absence of fear, there is faith
A sanctuary of an embrace
And authors
Write the solemn
Out of their pens
To be read
So others can know it
Know that they aren’t alone nor has every word been spent
Not yet…
And the poems that spill from your face
Will forever have a place
Between then and now
Between tomorrow and yesterday
Until all the ink runs out
Until we have nothing more to say
When you have finally found
Less reasons to go than to stay

Lonely Nights

Sometimes, when I lie
in bed at night,
I imagine that the firm
mattress beneath
me is your lean frame,
that the pillow
under my head is the
crook of your
neck, and that the quilt
is your arms
wrapping me in a snug
keeping me warm as the
wind whispers your name.

What You Do To Me

The clench between my thighs
Brought about by the look in your eyes
Grows stronger with each step in your stride
That brings you closer to me,
‘Til you’re standing toe-to-toe with me,
And I can feel the heat radiating from your body.

Face to face,
Hearts racing at the same pace,
On this night - we shall occupy that same space.
I will play in your oceans,
Respecting your tide’s motion;
Soak me in love.

I will soak you in mine if you will fill me with yours…
I won’t stop until you’re begging for more
Because I want to hear your feral roar
As you pour your liquid love into me,
Hips thrusting, lips locking, glee
Expressed through our bodies rocking as we fly free.

Free to taste you with no inhibitions -
Our missions vary, making this experience legendary -
Your geyser gushing, my lips lusting
With the compulsion to catch every honey drop
From my very own honey pot.

If you venture there I won’t be able to stop
My fingers from finding your hair papa bear,
Or keep my lips from parting
And my back from arching
To better receive your tender loving care.

Bold and italic text: Joaquin (thespokenpoet)
Just italics: Me (debzdkwfl)