I like to beautify things. When I write my notes, I'd always put colors in them. I'd always trace the letters to make them look like calligraphy.

I like to beautify things. When I see unorganized thoughts on my notebook, I'd weave them together and sprinkle some new ideas and turn them into poetry.

I like to beautify things. If someone feels bad about something, I'd tell them the things that are beautiful about them. I'd tell them that they are enough. I'd make them smile, until they laugh, because that is beautiful.

I like to beautify things. Even though he makes me sad at night, I'd still look at his pictures and somehow, they make me feel okay. I like to beautify sadness. I find ways to distract the demons. I grasp his photograph and stare at it until I fall asleep.

I like to beautify things — things, people, feelings, emotions. I don't like seeing anyone feel less beautiful. I don't want seeing something less beautiful. Maybe it's because I lack beauty, and seeing others being beautiful somehow fills the gap.

I like to beautify everything — everything but myself.

—Thalia Bautista; Why am I not beautiful?

A pen a pen my little pen
Slowly, I took a little pen
To write a poem with a pen
A poem, to beautify my pen
It’s a bonafide my little pen

A bar-like, my woody pen
A new, and passion my pen
It’s a grey-hued and little pen
And, it has a green bark a pen
Quite soft to touch my only pen

It’s a sharpen, my little pen
An iroko wood made my pen
A yellow part covered a pen
It’s a red, strike on my pen
With a black, strike my pen

Its look like a bow my pen
To write a bit with my pen
Supple to draw on, my pen
Can be use as dotting pen
Enclosed no ink in my pen

A bit looks like my little pen
To write, like my little pen
To sketch well, like my pen
To beautify, like a baby pen
Not like my handsome pen

Resistance is a **** stunting the possibilities of us, our nature,
and the sun that resides in us all.
When we let go
we always move forwards.
And when we hurt we grow,
we heighten,
to a place that isn't initially seen,
as holding on doesn't want to recognise
you're no longer there.
The illusion of resistance crumbles
when we empty our hands,
when our hearts tell our minds
Just let go,
here we regain the power of trust,
of faith,
and the wild playground of our lives
prove joyful again.
To extend out with all we have
knowing this reach has reversed equally.
Dropping the weight like a stone
surrendering in the sea of life,
expanding further still as we sink,
knowing that holding on to that
which resists so much
is not ours to be held,
we are not to remain stunted
in a state of tug of war.
life around us says so,
we are to learn and beautify
as we rise,
as we fall
We mustn't resist.
And so we are,
so we shall be
free.

a dark place,
dingy and cobwebbed:
the forlorn basement
below an unfinished house;
there is no hope
of an HGTV house-flip
or a makeover
or the sort of boring/heartwarming story
where some nice white family
—or conveniently diverse—
sets up shop,
smash-cuts through a renovation
and gets their dream home.

no,
the house will remain gloomy,
this basement filled with emptiness;
no one desires
to come through the door,
no one except the tweakers
and the vagabonds
and the runaways,
the ****** and the pimps,
the celebrities and psychiatrists,
the demons and the ghosts,
the preachers and their seething
congregations of judgmental ******
that live across the street,
and the ***** teenagers
hunting for a place to try out ***.

no cleaning crew
or maid service
or organize-your-life guru
or even the most experienced
of all the world’s janitors
could enter this house and clean it
or beautify this basement
or disenfranchise the squatters within;
the neighbors just try
and demolish it
every chance they get,
to rid their sparkling, spotless community
of this disgusting eyesore.

The cult moves in
circle. Stargazing
starts. You lie buried in
wet retreat. Eyes protruding

The veil sends a sweet death.

The death. Only you would
know, what was the conversation
between the repentant
and priest.

Superfluous. To beautify
the grimace. The lips―
always cheat.

A black cloud devours the moon.

wishing to beautify your face,
the prayer that wants
to beautify your heart...

The skin of your shoulders,
the skin of my teeth,
tripping tips of fingers,
eyes retreat and re-meet.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
you grappled and tore,
bit, I kept it to a dull roar.

You, you did coo,
as I saw nothing through,
coos for crooning,
surreal, surreal, surreal.

Excite the hunter,
excite the huntress,
as we take turns playing the prey.

Levitate the weight,
paw at my soul,
I lick your sores,
and beautify the remains.

We made a mess
of your hair, sweet Lioness,
returned and renewed
a sense of pulse, a sense of the thrill.

You claim me again and again,
claw into me, spilling my demons,
whispers smoke, chaotic melody.

An overgrown field of sheets
laid flat,
no question, no success or distraction,
panting, panting, panting.

I'm so lucky to be from the pearl of Africa
where democracy is just but a name
where independence was given but with chains
where a thousand busk in the millions' pains
I'm so lucky to be from a country where reigns total freedom of speech
as long as you're not a member of the opposition
a country where freedom of speech only lasts until the speech is made
if only you could ask the hundreds incarcerated,most are dead
for what? for not not realising the freedom doesn't count after speech
I'm lucky to be from a country that gives no **** about human rights
especially these meaningless developments
like right to internet, what a sweet place to live
no Whatsapp, no Facebook nor twitter and why?
Tomorrow is the swearing in of our new old President...
not that age is important, after all it's just a number
tomorrow we usher in a very comprehensive government
one which has managed to stretch its tentacles across three decades
tomorrow we will see fat bellied millionaires
on screens of those who can afford televisions
congratulate our president who's filled with enthusiasm
to rule a poor mass who voted for their corruption free bellies
and thus social media could be used to bomb our young innocent leader
black mambas beautify our streets while jet fighters ornamentally
buzz across the blue skies, as if Osama has resurrected in Kampala
to the visitors, we are not at war...those are salutes to our most cherished one
the visionary, the most trusted, the compassionate
the one who wouldn't hurt a fly or swat a mosquito
we can't take any chances, just tune your channels tomorrow
for first hand glimpse of the merry and youthful dances
social media is a destruction yet our president deserves all ears
in the sky, on the streets from the hopeless unemployed
tomorrow we speak not of change but change without change
tomorrow we usher in steady progress for another five years
tomorrow we start to smile and wipe the tears
for tomorrow we acknowledge the old man is here to stay
I hear even the Zimbabwean tortoise is in the country
ready to congratulate his associate...these boys fought for their countries
they freed us from crucibles into their heavenly hades...
we should appreciate they have sacrificed too much...
tomorrow is public holiday, forward to conservative past we match
back from the beautiful future we don't deserve
tomorrow like helpless dogs we bow to our master's collar
tomorrow we bury our hopes for change and feed on this yellow muck
the swamp of greed, we can't risk defiance, we're stuck
we're like the long horned cattle of the west
for tomorrow the fat ticks start to **** and ****
but I wonder, for how long, for how long will we just talk?
when will we do more than just silently sob?
I bleed for my country or a country I once thought was mine
I bleed the taxes, the ruthless beatings, the tear gas
I bleed like a slave being whipped by these fatigued caravans
I bleed despair and melancholy and wander
like a headless chicken,for how long though? I wonder!
I bleed for God and my Country
for Uganda, I bleed...

On every side was a wall of mesh
And in the middle she sat
What is out there beyond these walls? She wondered.
What if her visions of the world outside were false?
She was caged

She grew tired of her little house
What if I could get on the other side?
What if my wings were made not to only beautify?
She wondered

One push and her mesh house gave way
She stepped out and was greeted by the sunrays
Then she slipped, for her house was high up in a tree
She was falling; this must be the end of me
She cried

Suddenly, she noticed others with wings like hers
Why weren't they falling, crying?
Then she saw why and so she spread her wings
And for the first time she flapped them
She flew

And so began a new life for her
The world she dreamed of was right before her
She found herself, she found her wings, she learned to fly
She lived her dream, she soared up high
She was free

Humanity has no support to duty
Both contrary in dealing and punctuality:
Non-the-less deny each claims still their validity
Former needs emotional skip where later regularity!

Humanity is a thing roundly soul concern
Fancies of many idles, despotic and obligated.
Estimate not to beautify active approach return;
Deserve aid remarkable quiet pleasing black arts.

Duty declares the deed must accomplish statutable,
Gratitude, greed and gratification are sub-judice here-of:
A crazy caution compel to foil inapplicable
Yonker's pride, old hand cultivated doctrinal of.

Certain condition humanity plays role of pre-eminence
Duty looks wanting help out of heels,
Depending on probation passion of sincerity convince,
Rejecting deep binder satisfactorily set aside exceeds.

If stands duty and humanity both together,
Glorifies the spirit immortal as His name
And also deal showing clean impersonality further,
None appeal to mercy could not dare blame.

In the heart of the city of peace, a sinful act occurs:  
         Blue bruises of love beautify my neck, just as hers;
Colouring this grey canvas of gloom with divine thuds,
         It is then, when they rush into us: the filthy bloods.


Stain me with sins, and paint in white over me vigorously,
          Let the gods who created us, design our hell rigorously,
Let knees rumble, red eyes tumble, and virtues stumble,
          Stumble into a chaotic loss of heads: a loss humble.

My French Gem
The Rose tickler
finely handwritten

The movie part gave
her the sign life
crossed over gem
French kiss the morning
The burst of Kaleidoscope Sun

Double touched but forbidden
On the Cheetah necklace chase
The French Lieutenant 
 her body and lips moonstruck
On her chaise
To get over it another work of art
that got more attention

To revive her from drowning in
the gem scattered like a
benevolent
blue splat philanthropic
Looking more into his unknown
diving suit mixed
with envy green how she got mixed into
the stranger of Poison Ivy
Her love didn't show all her
attributes God spiritually well
She went to the pastry heart
how it flaked all
over like crystals
He was patiently sitting but got persuaded
That little gem of the lounge
Her firey gem was the canary
that got his tongue
Her gem stands taller  
The crafted lines of quality in the
Pillars

"Le Bonheur De  Vivre Gem-Art"

French kiss went inside the darker side of the painting

      He's transformed.

Shape heart delicate uniform.

"Parisians on a mission
A kiss is a serious manner
  LOVE" Gem birth opens her
He modifies her rainbow
Artwork of brush yellow
twinset platter hello fellow

the essence beloved to follow
So worth her wait being watched
By the crystal rock, he loved her
going up in spirit or she falls for him
The gem to be it

Magical modernly gem -fit clock.

See through hands meditation harp.

Lebonheur De Vivre fine art sharp.

Lips movement beyond hearts.

Le-bonheur De Vivre gem arts.

Artesian heels tapping boots.

Fall for Autumn love cahoots.

Beloved, divinely he's the healer.

The picture spoke she's the winner.

Wilderness he glides kisses prints.

Pushing her waves hints.

Everlasting one thought he's guessing?

Art never part beautify stem.

Eyes so genuine he's her gem.

sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black
glittering glints which do magnify
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
a dazzling splendor to ever beautify
sequined glories that verily eye smack
sparkling gems adorn the night sky
studding the vast backdrop of black

Being human is common ground.
By this truth we're all bound.

Slowly perishing day by day.
Heading down the same pathway.

While we are all living,
we can choose what we're giving

our time to before we die.
Let's lay our lives down to beautify.

You eventually get tired of seeking answers to all of your problems when
You've reached your seventeenth birthday and you're bored of trying to change
Because you've managed to convince yourself that it is alright to be an artist
With only a teacup as your motivation to actually have an aesthetic.
You reconciled a long time ago that it wasn't worth the trouble
roaming the streets and picking up inspirations from everything that you see.
You developed a longing for someone who wasn't there and now you're clinging
Onto the void they left as you watch the dreariness of your life
Pass through phases you're too exasperated with trying to describe
almost every time you find yourself alone without your intention.
Sometimes you try,
beginning with, "It's funny how the coldest people can make your heart feel the warmest."
or
"I wish I didn't need to spend my life relining structures of my own heartache just to be able to exist functionally," but,
the rest of what comes out doesn't really correlate with what you feel
and everything you beautify now becomes everything that stops being real.
You had to learn how to strip everything away.
Now you fill your bedroom with thoughts until the lights go off because you're too tired
To say darkness is an excuse. It's not what inspires you anymore.
So you've allowed yourself to only listen to artistic thoughts you experience when you're staring at your grandmothers teacup.
She gave it to you before you even knew how to make tea and now every night before you go to bed you stare at it like it can give you something the streets of capital cities with
big towers and dark skylines looked up on the internet past midnight when you were
miserable couldn't and wouldn't unless you actually went there.
You sit at your table and drop the teabag into the cup, just like your grandmother showed you. You have no image of what contents are supposed to dissolve,
But you watch the water as it changes colors so quickly. Clear to brown,
Clear to green, Clear to red.
You watch the ripples like sound waves,
affecting everything from the centre of the cup to the edge of it.
Those ripples are so small but they will affect everything eventually.
You imagine little people, colonies, not exactly living in the water but living
In their own version of reality where water is to them what sound is to humans.
"I wonder what happens when someone drinks all of the music out."
"Nobody lives. That's what happens."
You then imagine plummeting and the way teacups are a lot like rivers which people throw pebbles in.
You see the curve of the ceramic, the paleness of the white over the blackness of the stripes next to it and the way the bottom of the cup is rounded whilst visible even when it's filled with dark liquid...
You then think of human bodies plummeting into rivers.
In a way stones are sort of like teabags and when people's emotional burdens are materialized
They sometimes take the form of both.
(Here's a burden- put it in your pocket and jump into a river. Tie it around a string and dip it into your teacup.)
It's so whimsical how clear it is how you feel about people.
You wish you weren't as desperate as this- to think that it was artistic to think about ending
Your pain at a time where everybody wouldn't notice you're awake.
But you know that they also think these but don't express it because they don't have a pain their trying to destroy with revelations of meaninglessness.
You have now changed your aesthetic into your coping-mechanism,
And nobody needs to know.

Every single night you stare at teacups and think about why you're here and why you're not.
You still haven't found a reason and now you wish you never thought about rivers before you drank your tea or even got out the teabags.
Because now when you see teabags, you only see stones.
And instead of dropping them into boiling water you want to put them into your pockets.
But it's your aesthetic and it is your art.
And you'll never stop doing it,
You'll never stop doing it...

Meant to beautify
You're meant for beautification, so you beautify my world
I'm lost in your eyes, trapped by your cuteness
Your smile enhance my heart, your voice makes me the happiest
Your presence brighten up my world, cleared away my dark clouds and added more sunshine to my world
Where you are
is where I wanted to be
you're in me like scars
My irreplaceable
The touch of your hands is so subtle, to have made my heart melt like honey from the bee.
In my heart is where you dwell

Open up to me, he says
But inside there is nothing but void
Feel a little, he says
Little does he know
Every word that spills from his mouth
Injects itself into my blood
The anesthetic that numbs my soul
Listen to me, he yells
But all I hear is noise.

They want to fix me
Want to hammer out the perfect girl
To fit into their crumbling little world
-- a doll to beautify their cemetery
their collection of hollowed out bodies.
I may be empty but I’ve already been a token
Too many times.

Let me fix you, they say.
But all they do is break me.
Take more from me.
Let me fix you, they say.
Never once did they ask to heal me.
Try to glue me back together.
I’m already open.
But I was broken into.
Robbed.
Shattered
Hammered.
Invaded.
I’m already open
But you don’t like what you see
I guess it’s not pretty to watch me bleed.
I’m already open.
But you don’t like what you’ve found.
******* away the pain won’t do no good,
So put me back down.
Inject me with your silent poison and
Put

Me

Down.

                                 *-lf-

Praise ye the Lord. Sing unto the
Lord a new song, and his praise
in the congregation of saints.
2 Let Israel rejoice in him that
made him: let the children of Zion be
joyful in their King.
3 Let them praise his name in the
dance: let them sing praises unto him
with the timbrel and harp.
4 For the Lord taketh pleasure
in his people: he will beautify the
meek with salvation.
5 Let the saints be joyful in glory:
let them sing aloud upon their beds.
6 Let the high praises of God be
in their mouth, and a twoedged sword
in their hand:
7 To execute vengeance upon the
heathen, and punishments upon the
people:
8 To bind their kings with chains,
and their nobles with fetters of iron;
9 To execute upon them the
judgment written: this honour have all his
saints. Praise ye the Lord.

red bottom shoes Outlet provides beautiful Christian louboutin red bottom shoes and other shoes of international brands in very reasonable price to those girls and women who want to beautify themselves beautifully.Shop The Latest Christian louboutin red bottom shoes At  Red bottom shoes , Your Wish List, Come True! Go to Red bottom shoes Outlet to get what you want!
http://www.cheaplouboutins2011.com/

red bottom shoes Outlet provides beautiful Christian louboutin red bottom shoes and other shoes of international brands in very reasonable price to those girls and women who want to beautify themselves beautifully.Shop The Latest Christian louboutin red bottom shoes At  Red bottom shoes , Your Wish List, Come True! Go to Red bottom shoes Outlet to get what you want!
http://www.cheaplouboutins2011.com/

**** this restricting world!
**** this corporate America!
Just kidding, we’re free

or

we’re told we are free
given a right to life liberty and property,
well originally,
but now we have the right to pursue happiness,
not to be happy, just to look for it,

But my search is over.
Who could ever be happy in this polluted world?
No polluted like the air,
polluted in the mind,
We are sick twisted carbon copies of what was once greatness

No room in the curriculum for questioning
MCAS MCAS MCAS
SAT SAT SAT
AP AP AP
these standardized tests **** originality  
****** questioning
Memorizing the test is blinding,
shutting out the good things in this still wondrous world,

you see me sitting quietly in my room,
My mind is screaming
you see me sitting calmly at my desk
I violently ****, and pull, and stretch the cage I’m in
taken captive by a so called reality

A reality in which money is the same as success
A reality where feeling is a sign of weakness,
and a reality in which fun is only for stupid children
when did this horror begin?

Money is meaningless just a piece of paper
feeling is NOT weakness it’s what reminds us we are human
and fun is something everyone needs sometimes

I was given hands, a mind, a mouth and legs
these are (from what I’m told) the tools required to rise above this reality
Yet this image, this illusion is stopping me
this illusion that my tools are inadequate broken

It’s like that favorite toy a young child has because
as I said fun is just for kids, by the way thanks for denying us Trix
anyways he’s at school all day
just waiting to play with it,
unable to think about anything else,
and he gets home and runs through his mom cooking in the kitchen
rushed up the stairs
almost trips but doesn’t
and he gets to his room picks up this fantastic toy and
it’s batteries are missing

This is like me

My hands have the ability to write,
to draft new ideas
beautify the world with diction and rhetoric
unify the world with strong words
that have positive connotation,
because I don’t want to pursue happiness
I’m a little greedy and it’s like this
if I have the right to live
and the right to liberty
than I am making **** sure that I am happy

My mind is a holy vessel
or it was before I let it be molded
before I betrayed the great thinkers that came before me
it should be home to morals and ethics,
yet it’s filled with lies
all my productive thoughts blocked
by the newest TV series on ABC and FOX

My mouth would be very useful
if my mind would help me think of something intelligent to say
oh I wish I didn’t betray
let them in day by day
infusing me with poisonous thoughts
thought of memorizing facts not understanding them
thoughts about questioning being the same as stupidity
thoughts lacking individuality

My legs should help me
stand up for what I believe in
Like Martin Luther King did
Like Fredrick Douglass did
Like The Framers, Rosa Parks, Abbie Hoffman
and Abraham Lincoln did
Stuff I would fight for
live, cry, and die for-
But I’m feeling crippled today

We’ve run out of Prophets Renegades and leaders

we are part of a generation too easily influenced and too quickly swayed
but what can I say? I am a victim just like you
and I’m curious as to what we need to do

I have-I’m not sure yes yes I think it’s an idea
and I might need you

Lets hold each other up
support our crippled legs with one another
lets question even when we’re told there’s no room
lets resurrect originality I mean after all
we have the right to life liberty and property,
well originally

Today I found out not every encounter counts.
It is merely made up of  accidental meets.

We beautify it so that it becomes legendary,
As if life itself isn't.

Is it me or everybody that are too obsessed with
So called meant to be?

Encounter only counts if it is to be told,
For decades, for century.

floral effervescence
     wafts around you

          thy theo black temperament rose iq
          ushers lulabies as playful amor kru
          apollo is falling for the aquamarine
       rays, reflecting the sea's craved ardour
     and our love is like a cyclamen oleandro

  the fascinating, dissolving, poisonous sleep
  inwardly unaware of the whitest clouds oro
  seducing the beauty of a ceruelan absolute ~
   if i were the wave i would foam your dream
    if you were a black panther i'd be your kaa
       for a day to experience your mighty paws

     to tremble like open window shutters, strickened
       by the fire, by light, by thunderbolt's love flame

       oh, come on, come on sweet man of the fantasia
       i've got to tell you i ain't foolin' around those dim
      alleys at nights like this; luscious calls lure hello
       at least, hear my hearts deepest throbbings, hear

     them, embrace them, conquer my world's cream
      taste the strawberry sweeteness on a tip of me, u
       trickle your tongue against my open buoyancy
       write kaligrafic words of love's invisible tint
        beautify the untouched pergament, maestro

        write like there's no time nor tomorrow's no;
       inaugure every christmas crickets flash mob
       within you and awaken me from a slumber,
       deeply rooted, lovely and mild as wood's chi
       and I will cherish you, praise and love long
        forgotten wild forest's animals as panacea
        for the dissolving salt upon a love wound  
          which torchered your solitude for who's

         pleasure, for what reason, for a slick slap
          of an epic trustful faith as lux aeterna
             crashing the myth of a love superior;
          a desolation of waning touches soma

         hiding its fragility in madmind's attempt
       to overcome what's earth's given inferno;
        to die in a lustful blazing heat of creatio

          contemplating about heavenly key lock
        how to forge a golden key to your anima,
      gracefully giving a hand to her emperor
      to dance on a verge of an existence' folie
       to blossom upon hushed world's meridian
         in dreamy space n' time, first darlin' flush
        the prime animus dances, dares, waters~

Guarantee the valley...
Sweat and simple salt
Shared by constant, and fluent reasons
The tale of taste in a long run, for a hidden fault

Twists of fate, insists of courtesy
The truth be told, I have no problem
With wisdom, the tale of evidentiality
But a wise more, to finish anger, is our whim

Latent, the sobbing of a charisma
Sweet endeavor, do I seem the better of others?
When a promise of significance, is ours for the only dilemma
That will make liberty, a levity in justice, the irony of lovers?

We have the time, to tell you another story...
Through the timid shall, the world has a future to beautify
With all of a sincerity's bloom, a pyre to worry?
And the coming victory of self and same, a lucre we identify

With hatred...
Here to say, in language we see, is an assured privilege
The tows of compelling a home to sing the body lead
To wishes in the name of God, is anywhere here and now, a legend?

Poise of a common nose, to the grindstone
Welcome us to the table of vice, like a halt of decency
Among the clouds or finished with sunshine early, we have sown
The new, with now, the needs of all; any soul to show humanity...

Today I wrote a song about your teeth.
They are crooked and imperfect.
Just like this. Our hands. And these
songbirds are all liars. We haven’t learned.
Flesh memory is overrated. Last night
I felt the linen, and it whispered to me
nothing. Not even the shape of you
reminds me of happiness. What is the use
of these metaphors if they can’t
beautify you anymore. No longer as fierce
as the inferno I allowed you to become.
Drowning in bedclothes, trying to understand how streams of consciousness
are becoming bodies of water. Today
I wrote a song about your teeth. And I
read it aloud to the voiceless, and now
they know what love tastes like.

I'm not afraid to die of her smile
because no poison
no fuel,  adulterated......
and no betray in her mind

when she smiles deep and sweetly
then I want to  swim as much as I
and, of her tears like ocean
i wish I could swim, I can  fly of her voice

I love her specifically,  since
when we had been strangers for a day
for a night of flowering season
and we had smiled jointly by faced

I recalls that moments by heart and silenty
the beautiful moments returning
with holding her shadows --
she was smiled, that pictures arrived  again

Like a baby of smallest ages I play
and the pictures makes me happy
as I feel like the climbing on the peak of mountain's

I love her smile
makeup, beautify herself and
everything of her fashion
and designing, and become natural beauty

i love her like a fish loves water
i love her like  a bird loves sky

i am not going to beautify our love story
with words that sound like melodies
and events that only happen in movies,
because it wasn't beautiful,
nor was it a love story.
it was a tragedy filled with
the chaos of having the
right person, but the wrong time.

one thousand ninety five days
and i was a second too late.
the end was written
and the book was closed.
us became you and i,
i love you turned into
i loved you,
i looked at you, but
you were already looking at her.
you were supposed to be
the one who stayed,
but eventually became
the one who left.

and now, you're just another story
that i keep in my secret drawer
labeled all the boys i've cried over.

Breast-ache woman, you beautify
behind redden scars
and befriend those who are
free from languid storm-hair.

I see you rate the raw breast-worship
of frantic whistles which collide against the
callus freckles of a moon-sea.

You ask, "Can you see the satellites that sate
lights of the city...Creating
causeways or ways to cause
the first chill of dirt in a Martini?"

I take a drink.

Your labyrinth of kinetic chemistry ignites
desire inside my soul, shimmering brown
eyes a wave of passion seducing my flesh,
honey brown cheeks a hypnotic place of
brilliant dreams, enticing kingdoms, soft
lips a maze of escapes burning my body,
as I run my hands through your smooth
thick dreads.  A lover's harmonic melody
sifts inside my mind, timeless highs
and moonlight skies, mega beats and super
bassline drums sparking my veins.  I want
to embrace the rhythm of your **** inside
of me, sweet sounds and emotions rising
all over me, fire building and boiling with
lust, secrets unlocked, jazzy glow, neon
lights under the beautify sky, while I
lay in your arms and feel the ocean of
poetry soar inside my heart.

"I'm sorry, forgive me"
"I'll never raise my hand at you
I swear"
"I love you"

These bruises on my face that
I tried to conceal are finally
Wearing me
Not all the make-up in the
World can beautify the tallies
Of your anger that adorn my
Skin

Your heart beats anger
And it courses through your veins
Pulps of blood I tried
To hide with layers of clothes
Have finally stained
And I can't lie anymore

You call this love?
Is love the purple bruises
Plastered across my pale skin
That have been left behind
By the velvety hands I used
To yearn for?

You love me
It's okay
I should not be afraid
You were just blowing
Off steam
You love me

I've been swimming in this
Pool of denial long enough
To know that I can't really
Swim, I'm drowning
And my feet are firmly
Fixed on the ground

I am afraid of
The monsters lurking
Behind the iris of your pupil
The demons that lurk
Behind your shadows

I haven't seen my mother
In a few months
I'm scared she'll see behind
The facade I put on
She'll tell me
"Baby, you need to leave"
And I don't want to leave
He doesn't want me to leave

My head has been banged
Across the kitchen walls
More than it has been raised
These walls have been repainted
Repainted, and repainted
My scalp has been snatched
More times that I've cared to
Admit

I'm ashamed to say
I've traded parts of me
For shambles of trust,
A lot of bruises,
Rough ***,
Infatuation,
And called it love