Every wrinkle is a story untold;
A memory pulling at your skin
Wanting to reside there forever.
So many girls try to cover up their past
With cheap foundation
And other various products
Instead of accepting who they were
And who they are now.
We all need to learn to
Embrace our past,
And wear it with pride
In our futures.
I never knew a song
to have eyes
Never knew a song
to look back
To sing, without a single word set free
To fill me to the brim with music
To shimmer and shake
Consumed with stories
Stumbling over one another to make themselves heard
But then again
I never knew a poem
Could be buried
In the wrinkles of a palm
“You look so sullen today,” he would tease.
He would try to iron the wrinkles
on my forehead with the palm of his hand.
The worry lines that I have had from before I understood
trembling breaths and foggy thoughts,
the creases that are not so easily pressed away
with soft words and even softer touches.
Daddy, I have loved melancholy
since I broke my wrists the first time
and learned the name of every bone
in the human body
because I realized I liked the unknown,
but I liked knowing it better.
In your wrinkles lies the wisdom that I continuously seek
too eager to wait for my own, into my future I attempt to peek
but it is through rose-tinted glasses, shattered by visions of war
that I understand my world filled paradoxically with blood, love, and gore.
Letting the words pour forth, I forget what I am trying to say
all I can remember is the hope that I hold for some better days,
not just for me and mine but this entire global community
that stumbles over politic and collapses in economic unity.
When will the giant be humbled upon desolate shores?
Surely it won't take the deaths of too many more...
Soldiers of fortune?
No, Soldiers of Deceit -- victims of their leaders own bigoted conceit.
Bloated and forsaken are the children of opportunity,
praying for sustainability, locked in obscurity.
I know no truth which has never been known before...
but God, bless all the ageless that wear their wrinkles as a crown of thorns.
I've always hated
How my face would crinkle and crease
Like old leather,
Whenever I could muster a smile.
It always seemed like such a contradiction in my mind,
That a feeling of such radiant youth
Should make me appear so
But when you hold me close,
And say that you love me
Or that my wrinkles are cute,
I couldn't care about a goddamned thing
Outside the beautiful shyness in your voice,
Or that mischievous gleam in your eyes.
For Naomi Lazard
Sometimes I can't wait until I look like Nadezhda Mandelstam.
-- Naomi Lazard
My friends are tired.
The ones who are married are tired
of being married.
The ones who are single are tired
of being single.
They look at their wrinkles.
The ones who are single attribute their wrinkles
to being single.
The ones who are married attribute their wrinkles
to being married.
They have very few wrinkles.
Even taken together,
they have very few wrinkles.
But I cannot persuade them
to look at their wrinkles
& I cannot persuade them that being married
or being single
has nothing to do with wrinkles.
Each one sees a deep & bitter groove,
a San Andreas fault across her forehead.
"It is only a matter of time
before the earthquake."
They trade the names of plastic surgeons
My friends are tired.
The ones who have children are tired
of having children.
The ones who are childless are tired
of being childless.
They love their wrinkles.
If only their were deeper
they could hide.
Sometimes I think
(but do not dare to tell them)
that when the face is left alone to dig its grave,
the soul is grateful
& rolls in.