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
A candy striped knitted blanket covers were frail thighs,
resting underneath her hands that have baked bread, dug earth and planted tulips.
Hands that have stroked the head of a new born baby, still glistening and bloody.
Hands that have crawled out thirties Jewish ghettos.
I reached out to touch them and she turned to me and said,
'Even my wrinkles have wrinkles'
How satisfying and sublime it is to know
that each wrinkle deep rooted on your face is to show
each of life's wonderful and more difficult points in time wherein
our moments of laughter, tears and frowns are ingrained in our skin -
marks of life and a sign of a beautiful soul within
who has truly experienced life to it's fullest form -
a person who knows existence can be a violent storm.
I'll hold your hand through the wizened wrinkles; even if your beautiful mind will eventually crinkle.
Crinkled & crumpled into creases too deep for sunshine to peek through.
(My fingertips will still slowly but surely fix it.)
Even when the hair tickling my bare shoulders, collarbones & necks on lazy sunday morning is no longer quite the same.
I'll be right here.
Whoo. I wrote this after I discovered a strand of white in my hair.
I WAS SO SHOCKED.
I MEAN, I am not even at the age to HAVE white hair.
Anyhoo, how have you been darling readers?
pain encompasses me--
like a much worn,
empty of its
from a beloved friend.
the many creases and wrinkles
on this thin, senescent pocket
which once held such secrets and joys
are places my fallen tears
and made their presence known.
pain is emptiness.