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vAngMakata
Poems2
Words123
When you’re finally alone, standing at the summit-- got the money you bled for with pockets full of gold-- but the air is thin and no one climbs beside you, what the hell do you call that?
0
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 2:38 AM UTC
vAngMakata
Independence or Loneliness?
When you’re finally alone, standing at the summit-- got the money you bled for with pockets full of gold-- but the air is thin and no one climbs beside you, what the hell do you call that?
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5
Women’s bodies are ethereal. No— Not the kind of bodies You’d see in magazines, Runways shows, or even those In tv. They’re unrealistic, in some way. Whenever I— No, Not just I— But whenever people Would be looking at men’s bodies, It’s just normal. There’s no sense of excitement. Unlike women’s, theirs are like art. Not allowed to be touched— But to only be respected and to be adored at by a specific person. They shouldn’t feel ashamed nor insecured for such naturalistic flaws. Stretch-marks, Hairs on noticeable places, Or even unwanted skin— Such naturalistic things that you call “flaws” Aren’t even flaws to begin with. In my view, They still are a part of the art-like beauty within women. Not all paintings look detailed and not all songs sound pleasant. Everything in this world Have their own kind of imperfections— 7 billion people could tell you about them— But if you were to show your art to someone specific— someone realistic yet loving at the same time, You’ll be rewarded with glorious praise that no supermodel nor any actress could ever long for. That rather than being complimented by the words “you’re beautiful” or “you’re **** By a thousand people, You’ll wake up to the comfort of your bed with one rightful person Who’ll fully embrace the softness of your own skin— Kiss the fragility of your torn-up heart— Hug you. Kiss you again, Then whisper the words, “I love your soul.” Day-by-day— Night-by-night— Truthfully— Eternally— Everlastingly.
0
Mar 23
Mar 23, 2026 at 2:21 AM UTC
vAngMakata
Womens Bodies
Women’s bodies are ethereal. No— Not the kind of bodies You’d see in magazines, Runways shows, or even those In tv. They’re unrealistic, in some way. Whenever I— No, Not just I— But whenever people Would be looking at men’s bodies, It’s just normal. There’s no sense of excitement. Unlike women’s, theirs are like art. Not allowed to be touched— But to only be respected and to be adored at by a specific person. They shouldn’t feel ashamed nor insecured for such naturalistic flaws. Stretch-marks, Hairs on noticeable places, Or even unwanted skin— Such naturalistic things that you call “flaws” Aren’t even flaws to begin with. In my view, They still are a part of the art-like beauty within women. Not all paintings look detailed and not all songs sound pleasant. Everything in this world Have their own kind of imperfections— 7 billion people could tell you about them— But if you were to show your art to someone specific— someone realistic yet loving at the same time, You’ll be rewarded with glorious praise that no supermodel nor any actress could ever long for. That rather than being complimented by the words “you’re beautiful” or “you’re **** By a thousand people, You’ll wake up to the comfort of your bed with one rightful person Who’ll fully embrace the softness of your own skin— Kiss the fragility of your torn-up heart— Hug you. Kiss you again, Then whisper the words, “I love your soul.” Day-by-day— Night-by-night— Truthfully— Eternally— Everlastingly.
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