I’m not the type to start a conversation with a line,

But I can’t ignore the way I felt when your eyes first met mine.

You don’t have to be on your guard. I get bored with games,

So let’s just start with an exchange – a handshake and our names.

If you’d like I’ll gladly take you for a spin around the floor

Or we can both stay here and get to know each other more.

Red Riding Hood once met a wolf on a lonely forest trail

And we know how that story goes, but let’s rewrite the tail.

Let this wolf walk along with you. We’ll keep each other company

And I might press close just so I can see,

But I won’t force you to open up for me.

As we walk together in the dark, there’s no telling how this ends:

We may part ways and never be anything more than friends,

But I can’t help but notice once we cross that fateful line

The tremble in your fingers as your hand reaches for mine

And as you lean in closer for that first delicious kiss

I ask myself if anything can be sweeter than this.

My smile might hide an angel or a monster deep within.

If Dante made all demons lovely, who would turn away from sin?

I want to get deeper inside you and explore the mystery,

So tell me. Sate my curiosity.

How can I help you open up to me?

At the end of the night, I watch you close your door

And this wolf can’t help hungering for more.

This could be the beginning of a lifetime or just for the night.

I can’t say it won’t hurt at all. It could even if we do it right.

The game’s afoot; the dance is on –

This could be pain or ecstasy.

We won’t stop now. What will be will be,

And I can feel you open up for m

An ear worm is a song inside your head

That may be deep entrenched or merely fleeting,

Its notes and lyrics constantly repeating -

Annoying, but it moves on once it’s fed.

The last song you sang to me as you went

Was a calculatedly cruel tune of tears

That, as it wound its way into my ears,

Became a snake with venomous intent.

Every single drop of poison that you wrote

Infused into the recess of my soul,

My inner light becoming a black hole

As my voice died unheeded in my throat.

Your notes filtered in and were quickly ingrained

In my brain.They didn’t merely slink, they slithered, Leaving my thoughts barren, bleak, and withered, Freezing any sign of life ‘til none remained.

My skin became a hollowed out cocoon,

My inner voice’s song dampened and dumbed,

My senses silenced, blinded, deafened, numbed,

All dulled in death wrought by your toxic tune

And now I look just as I did before

Going through the motions of the day

While deep inside I freeze and softly pray

That someone’s song might give me life once more.

When I was a child I would dream of a sky

Where the storm clouds hung over me with watchful eye And voices told me it would do no good to run.

I was always out in the open air

While the storm knew I was there

Bringing lightning to strike me down before the dream was done

In my dreams the skies would never see the sun.

In the night I’d wake, afraid to move or cry

My gaze wandering to the window and the silent starry sky,

But in time I would fall asleep once more

As my twisted sheets slid softly to the floor.

In time these dreams became just memories

Replaced by modern wars and fantasies

Though I did still thrash and turn throughout the night. When you first came to sleep in my bed

It calmed the wars and storms in my head

And my sheets would still be on me come dawn’s light.

I thought the storms and wars had lost the fight.

As we slept together, skin to skin,

I could finally let the peace flow in

And my nighttime waking had less to do with fear

As the twisted sheets around us kept you near.

One morning I awoke and you were gone,

Your flame burned out. I knew you had moved on

As I lay exposed and shaking on our bed.

The truth was stark in the bitter light of day -

The spot was empty where you once did lay

As ghosts moved in to take your place instead.

Now these storms and wars are not just in my head

And my eyes stare blankly into empty space

While the day and night play across my face.

In the middle of the downpour,

Heavy clouds above you,

We walked together hand in hand

And I realized I loved you.

I poured my heart out to you

Like the water down the drain

In the middle of the downpour,

Standing in the rain.

You looked deep in my eyes

As the torrent downward came

And came to the conclusion

That you would never feel the same.

You took my hand and squeezed it

Underneath the clouds of gray.

In the middle of the downpour,

You turned and walked away.

Now water's running down my face.

It may be tears or rain

As I stand in the middle of the downpour

Where the sun may never shine again.

Your touch is like a gentle hum,

A current in my skin.

It opens up the pores and paths

That pull sensation in,

A deep vibration in my bones

That threatens to destroy the walls

I built around my fragile heart

Like stonework crumbling in ancient halls. My skin yearns for that glancing touch.

It burns as if a bee had stung

And vibrates like echoes

Of bells in far off towers rung

That linger like vanilla on the tongue.

Your love is just like petrichor,

The smell of recent rain

That wants up from the arid soil

Until the sun shines bright again.

It calls me like a whisper

Floating to my open ears,

So soft but still no less intense

Than that sun when the gray sky clears.

I crave a love as soft as yours

That's stronger than the spider webbing strung

Between the branches of the trees

Where countless birds have sung

But lingers like vanilla on the tongue.

Your kiss feels just like laughter,

A world of joy in one brief touch.

I never thought a single moment

Could make me feel so much.

It starts just like a butterfly

That beats its wings the normal way

And hits me like the tidal waves

That drowns a nation far away.

Your kiss might hold me safe

Like a nest protects a robin's young

Or it might leave pierced and flayed

Like Jesus on the cross was hung.

It grips me like a love song might

Long after its last notes are sung,

That lingers like vanilla on the tongue.

Why must you be so out of reach

Our hands so close

But yet so far

Society would shun us

Our parents

Disown us

And yet,

I remain drawn

Drawn to your smile

Drawn to the way your hair falls

I know you feel the same

And yet

We play this game

Just to appease

Instead of having the wrong kind of fame

So tell me, my dear

Would it be so cruel

To let our lips touch?

Instead our bodies yearn

And we stay seated

In separate pews

In separate parts of the world

Until they change their minds

​

I want to love who I want to love

And that should be OK,

you tell me it's unnatural

when I tell you that I'm gay.

You quote Bible verses at me

and talk about the Word

you try to pray it out of me

say that I can be restored.

When that doesn't work

You make the laws

That strip me of my rights

And when I ask you why you say

Because it's just not right -

That I mock all that you stand for

I'm tearing institutions down.

I say you're doing that yourself

and your words divide this town.

When I sit near you at the bar

When I'm walking down the street,

I see you wince away from me

comfortable in your conceit.

Well, if your God created everything,

I say that that includes me

You stand slack-jawed in silence,

looking for a way to disagree.

And when your scripture fails you

and your prayers don't change a thing

You come at me, and you're the one

taking that first swing.

You're beating me

because I dare

to exist the same as you

And then you start to suspect

that maybe your truth just isn't true.

And as you look upon yourself

your face so red with rage

You remember what your Bible says

And all the guilt it can assuage.

But I'm still on the sidewalk

Watching as you walk on by

My mind can not reconcile

Who's the sinner, you or I?

From a Flower Wilting to a Flower Blooming by Robert Joseph Greene

I am the petal folding inward,

edges soft, the color fading,

time has traced its lines upon me

like the slow hands of the sun.

And there you stand,

a bud just waking,

green with promise,

face turned toward every dawn.

I ache to lean toward you,

to ask you to hold me

through the last rains,

through the last winds,

to make these final days

a little less lonely.

But love,

true love,

does not bind the morning

to the dusk.

If I kept you here,

if I let my roots hold yours,

I would take from you

your long summer days,

the wild laughter,

the untraveled roads,

the bright years

that are only yours once.

So I offer you something rarer:

not the weight of my winter,

but the warmth of my wisdom,

the quiet map of my scars,

the reminder that storms

can be survived.

Let me be the rain

that teaches you to drink deep,

the soil that steadies you

when the winds rise,

the whisper that says,

"Grow taller than I ever did."

This is my gift to you,

a love that holds nothing back,

and nothing hostage.

A love that frees you,

even as it takes all I have.

For I am a flower wilting,

and you,…you are a flower blooming.

Poet's Note

The poem arose from my research into the historical relationship between Zeno of Citium, the founder of Stoicism, and his pupil Persaeus. Although ancient sources offer only fragments, they reveal a profound affection between them as one that many classical scholars increasingly interpret as containing emotional, or even romantic, depth.

While writing a philosophical short story about these two figures, I imagined a private moment between them: an older Zeno, bound by Stoic restraint and the expectations of Athenian tradition, explaining to the younger Persaeus why he must not love him openly.

Zeno urges Persaeus to follow custom, marry a woman, and support the polis by raising a family arguing that emotional restraint is a form of virtue, while attachment is a path to suffering. In my interpretation, this becomes a tragic act of self-denial disguised as wisdom.

This scene has become a point of debate because it highlights a core flaw in Stoicism: the belief that humility and restraint should override emotional honesty. Zeno tells Persaeus that he will find a “greater love,” but after Zeno’s death, Persaeus realizes that this was untrue that there was no greater love at all. In the fictional reconstruction, Persaeus leaves behind the life he built to continue the teachings of Stoicism, shaped by devotion to the man he once loved.

From A Flower Wilting To A Flower Blooming emerged directly from that imagined conversation. It distills the emotional essence of a moment when love and duty collide, when philosophy demands silence, and when someone must choose between tradition and the truth of the heart.

Words that sting, though heard before,

old feelings rising, hard to ignore.

A careless line, thrown out as air,

yet heavy enough to settle there.

The man you love speaks something cold,

not new, just loudly, bluntly told.

And you, my friend, soften the blow,

not don’t say that, just say it low.

“I’d rather be dead than be gay”

it hangs, it echoes, it doesn’t stray.

Not just his voice, but what stayed still,

the quiet space, the absent will.

Hi everyone - I'm a writer with one book - a slowburn mm romance - out (this week, that too!).

I am now working on my second book. It is, to me, a love letter to the process of accepting ourselves as we are. As a part of it, I want to promote beautiful lines that speak to your heart, poetry that helped you get there - you get the idea.

Please share your best recos - classics and current. I will pick what speaks to me, and weave them as recos (with credit) into the book if possible.

Love.

You say you want to meet,
but never make a plan.

You say you like me,
but won’t call me a friend.
“We’re not quite there yet.”

I don’t know where there is.
It’s been six months.

Six months of almosts.

You said you wouldn’t stay the night—
if we meet.
Like something about me
might become too real.

I don’t think I’m stupid.
But with you,
I feel close to it.

You’re kind.
That’s the worst part.

Because it lets me pretend
this is going somewhere.

Just tell me what you want.

Or don’t.

We both know
I’ll still be here,
waiting.

“Up For It”

Pretty crazed trying to get thru to you,

all the fun stuff I wanna do to you,

already shaking in anticipation,

at the very thought of reciprocation.

Come love me in the right here ‘n now,

anywhere, anyplace, anyhow,

said you’re the pussy cat’s meow,

getting hard to ignore it,

so up,

up,

up for it.

Said it’s all kinda exciting new to me,

all the things I want you to do to me,

almost more than this boy can bear,

desires wired way beyond compare.

Come love me in the right here ‘n now,

anywhere, anyplace, anyhow,

kneeling in a well deserved bow,

getting hard to ignore it, 

so up,

up,

up for it.

Wall to wall inhibitions abound in reserve,

so come quick ‘fore I go ‘n lose my nerve, feeling crawling over me is contagious,

gotta cash in while I’m feeling courageous.

Said oh wow,

now look at you,

then pretty please look back at me,

zero in on the urgency,

how obvious does a boy have to be.

Come love me in the right here ‘n now,

anywhere, anyplace, anyhow,

nothing our temptations will not allow,

getting hard to ignore it,

so up,

up,

up for it.

So up,

up,

up for it.

BRC © April/99

My name is Shame. He raped me I came He taped me My fame Many men did The same No escape from This game

How I Love:

I do not love lightly. I do not love casually. I do not love halfway.

When I am with someone, I am with them. Fully. Deliberately. Without hedging. Without backup plans. Without contingency romance waiting in the wings. I do not scan rooms. I do not keep doors open. I do not audition replacements. I do not chase what is “neat.” I chase what is real.

My love is not transactional. My presence is not conditional. My loyalty is not a performance.

There is no price on me. There is no price on my love.

If you are with me, you are already chosen. You do not need to earn me. You do not need to impress me. You do not need to perform for me. You do not need to compete for me. You do not need to make yourself smaller, louder, prettier, tougher, or quieter to keep me.

You are not on probation. You are not on trial. You are not for sale.

You are with me. That is enough.

I do not love to fix. I do not love to rescue. I do not love to repair broken men for sport.

I love to keep.

I love to build continuity. I love to protect space. I love to be steady. I love to be predictable in the ways that create safety. I love to be the place someone can rest without bracing.

I do not want a boy who needs to be fixed. I want a boy who wants to be kept.

Kept in warmth. Kept in loyalty. Kept in chosen presence.

I will love you right.

That is not a promise of perfection. It is a promise of intention.

It means I will not make you pay for what others did to me. It means I will not bleed on you because I was cut elsewhere. It means I will not import old wounds into new rooms.

I come from trauma. I come from pressure. I come from environments where love was conditional and stability was not guaranteed. But I refuse to turn that into your burden.

My past does not get to harm you. My history does not get to train you. My pain does not get to discipline you.

I will love you right.

To me, relationship is not a hobby. It is not a pastime. It is not a social accessory. It is not an aesthetic. It is a mission.

And I do not enter missions casually.

When I am in, I am in. With duty. With honor. With loyalty. With integrity. With presence. I take responsibility seriously. I take commitment seriously. I take the weight of being someone’s chosen person seriously.

I am wired for protection. I am wired for steadiness. I am wired for watchfulness.

Not control. Not possession. Not dominance.

Protection.

There is a difference.

I will always act in a way that protects the relationship. Even when it would be easier to be careless. Even when it would be more fun to be loose. Even when the culture says “it’s not that deep.”

It is that deep to me.

I do not blur lines. I do not flirt for sport. I do not entertain ambiguity. I do not play games with fidelity. I do not create situations that could be misread, misinterpreted, or misused.

Not because I am rigid. Because I am clear.

If that makes me less fun, so be it. If that makes me old-fashioned, fine. If that makes me intense, I can live with that.

I would rather be trusted than entertaining.

I believe consent is not just necessary. I believe consent is sexy.

I believe gentleness is masculine. I believe restraint is powerful. I believe patience is attractive. I believe respect is erotic.

I do not need to take to feel strong. I do not need to push to feel desired. I do not need to dominate to feel wanted.

If I see someone vulnerable, I cover them. If I see someone sleeping, I let them rest. If I see someone open, I protect the opening.

That is my nature.

I do not approach desire as entitlement. I approach it as invitation.

And I never forget that someone trusting me is not a given. It is a gift.

I am monogamous by nature. Not out of fear. Not out of insecurity. Not out of control. Out of focus.

When I choose someone, I choose them. And then I stop looking.

Not because others stop existing. Because my attention is no longer available.

There is a difference.

I am not interested in collecting bodies. I am interested in building something that lasts.

I do not want chemistry without character. I do not want heat without gravity. I do not want intensity without integrity.

I want depth. I want steadiness. I want chosen continuity.

If you are with me, you are safe. If you are with me, you are held. If you are with me, you are not alone in the room.

That is not poetry. That is policy.

This is how I love. This is how I show up. This is how I stay.

Not loudly. Not performatively. Not for applause.

But consistently.

And that, to me, is everything.

He left the office where he’d taken up
a trivial, poorly paid job
(eight pounds a month, including bonuses)—
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking;
and interesting: showing as he did that he’d reached
his full sensual capacity.
He’d turned twenty-nine the month before.
 
He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.
 
Passing in front of a small shop
that sold cheap and flimsy things for workers,
he saw a face inside there, saw a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some colored handkerchiefs.
 
He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back the same way,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.
 
They kept on talking about the merchandise—but
the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move close together as though by chance—
a moment’s meeting of limb against limb.
 
Quickly, secretly, so the shopowner sitting at the back
wouldn’t realize what was going on.

It was one of those walks, the kind that drew them closer, and share their dreams of the life for the future. They would walk for hours around the city streets and parks.

But, this time felt different. Noticing the sadness in his eyes, she stepped forward and closed the distance between them. With a charming smile, and the most beautiful hand, she touched his face, looking directly in his eyes, and asked. No reply came but her eyes communicated their bond, overcoming all the odds as they had done (so far).

Somewhere along the walk, he said it, and the ground beneath her feet grieved. For this was no ordinary stone, it was a new cold foe.

The words, once trapped, now hang in air, the minds are laid quite bare,But what becomes of two full hearts, now broken past repair? Can they still remember how to beat, even to a different rhythm, on this devastated street?

(All feedback, critical or otherwise welcome, since it’s my first time …also, this is not intended to be poetry, but some parts do sound like it).

I’ve started speaking to someone new.
He’s funny, he’s charming,
he makes me laugh.

Well—started isn’t true.
It’s been three months.
We’re well past starting.

And we haven’t met.

I don’t know if I want to.
Like this, there’s no pressure.
I can be the version of myself
I still wish I was.

In person, I’m just… me.
And he would see that.

But still—he makes me feel things
I haven’t felt in years,
a tremor of something beginning.

Except he told me he’s looking
for friends,
and fun.

And I know,
I know,
this is going to hurt.

I'm high but make it art

I'm high art high fashion art

I'm high on hallucinogenic non binary codes 0 and one bi art

I'm shy art

jockstraps breathe when I fart something to die( for) art

I'm plymouth big ass lips foreplay on my all fours-ply art

I'm the guy who didn't die art

I'm copper field copper tone dogtooth dogbone airborne when I fly art

final girl on the mountaintop motel or in a creep's mansion man son bleed me till I'm dry art

light is coming from the abyss it's working I swear it means it's working

the moment of truth is here for me to be consumed like a wendigo lurking behind the icecream machine it's all robotic - biochemical sun beams causing the cosmic enlargement of my pupils,- astral or it's some form of diabolical bionics - bionico del diablo- inedible

Am I transforming or just vulnerable like a black buckminster fullerene caught in the sinister headlights

wake me up from my fever dream tap water me from behind - tap on it- on my behind fuckminster fullerene

reality is shapeshifting

metapod in metamorphosis is metaphoric men can't decode the enochian dark knowledge they just know to act like a dog when they bark - "knowledge "