Never will it be said
That she was a genius.
Never will it be said
That she was talented.
Never will it be said
That she spoke kindly.
Never will it be said
That she was beautiful.
Never will it be said
That she carried value.

What will be said
Is that she was normal.
That she was average.
That she was capable
of ******* everything up.
That she didn't try enough,
didn't achieve enough,
didn't listen to what
would have saved her soul.
What will be said
Is that she wasn't terrible,
just mean.
Is that she wasn't stupid,
just dumb.
Is that she wasn't a gem,
just a pebble.

Scuffed soul,
scuffed body.
Imperfections layered
to cover the disappointments
of never being
anything
of worth.

Permanence is Gods blood.

im done learning a language rooted in vanity
like I need to take a selfie for my latest avi to go along with that tweet
and we're up in arms fighting, but its on the hush hush in our subtweets
thinking these anons that ask questions to boost my self security
telling friends, give me just an instant to update my insta
yeah, we're full of wit
spitting captions to gain cheap chuckles
lacing 140 characters together to make a point
less, we're spending time thinking of a cheap rhyme
while in the meantime our headlines are suffering from the lack of attention
because if one more ******* person tells me they're gaining fame
online
with meaningless angles, and pop culture retweeted
im going to lose my ******* mind
this **** is such a waste of time
this shrine made up of the kind of things you call mine
and we're washing out the brilliant minds
that are taking the time
to tell you something worthwhile
we're using a shovel as a ***
and plowing this tool into the ground
when artists all around are trying to dig through the *******
just to show you
that somethings are actually worth noticing

He looks at her

He looks how she dance

How body moves, how she smiles and sings.

Then he realizes

he will never maybe have her

someday he will hug her tight and say I love you

Now he just only watches how his fairy dances

(k.l)

As she sat in lace *******;    
damp from her liquids,    
so slick they easily slip,    
down over her pelvis,    
sliding off her hips.    
Thighs parting, legs spread wide.    
Her finger tips,    
the crescent between her lips,    
tracing her slit,  
Pressing,    
Caressing,    
As her waist lifts.    
Her present,    
His gift,    
Turning herself on,    
teasing him like this.

Her eyes were very similar to ice
Although I could not say the same about her face
Oh, yes, I saw what was hidden in those pupils
And when I gazed in them, I felt like a disgrace

But years had passed and I grew fond
Ineptly I kept gazing into them
And I did notice her face was icy, after all
Cold, slick and for that I condemn

The crackled features of her eyes started becoming bold
And watching them, I never grew tired.
Beading, burning, sparkling red.
They'd shifted from ice to fire.

My artist friend
Grisham John
(you'll hear more of him
and see his works soon enough)
has been working on nudes
(I mean artistically,  of course);
and with his co-operative models
he's produced a series of fine nudes
(please, keep a literal mind as you read me)

just the other day
Grisham John decided to have a break
so he told the day's model to dress
and would she make some tea and just talk
he needed to just relax
and they sat in the studio just chatting
but suddenly he heard his wife return
from the shops
and he speed-muttered to his model:
"Quick! Undress before my wife sees us!"

*You know,  artists do see things differently