Poetry’s carved into her flesh,
intertwined with her ribs
and parasitic on her brain, the softest ***** now that her thrashing chest hardened.

It’s the thorn of a plastic rose, jabbing her distinct print, and
analogies crawling down to her jaw line,
sprawling at individual forks of two points; it was always only two.

Melodic qualities burgled her mind to
exist in ubiquity throughout her pores
and soiled strands of hair pinched with a tie ten centimeters from the root.

Poetry, disobedient and sovereign,
lived to spell a testimony
individual to her since no one breathed her air.

you're aching, and tragicly breaking.
living your life in dispair.
your praying, and you're waiting,
for someone who doesnt care,
he was never really there.

you're burning, and you're yearning,
for him to come through,
stop wasting all your time on him,
and just start loving you.

Another slimy page absorbed by gentle, tender hands
Another reality channel infected by impossibilities
Another grainy film shaded by green to hide the truth

All eyes are glued to these perfections
Simple utopias I can never be

Her hair, his eyes, their laugh, that smile

How disheartening it is
for my friends to say one word
when the tags on my clothing say another

A dent here, a scar there, a bulge elsewhere
hips too wide, skin too rough, hair too straight, eyes too red,
toes too small, nose too big, scar too dark, skin too light
My entire being is stitched together faults

So my eyes burn as yours shine
I guess it is yet another imperfection

But then again, are the blemishes even mine?