Why are we so
Obsessed,
with the liquid paint
that we slather on our
faces-
morning after morning?

We stroll the isles of
Fifty shades of Nudes
to find the shade
that makes us look like
Painted glass
Porcelain dolls,
and Fake.

Why?
Why are we so obsessed with
Maybelline and
Covergirl and
Elf?
The brands that contour
our faces
and create an illusion
a canvas
Over-painted by
Overpriced
Chemicals.

Beauty costs
Money.
Youth.
Clear skin.
But it brings this sense of
false hope that
maybe-
we can accept ourselves
after we put on this paint
and call it beauty.

We see Photoshop,
the blurred lines,
the perfect wing,
and the rosy shade of blush
that seems perfectly
Fake.
Too perfect to be real
Too perfect to be real.

And yet we strive,
for this unattainable beauty.
The **** we see on
Facebook
YouTube
Instagram
drives us crazy
because no matter how hard we try
no matter how much we waste
we can’t seem to get that
contour right
and that wing sharp
and that mascara clump-less
and that lipstick perfect.

And even though
we cannot seem to get it right,
we buy
we strive
to be the perfect shade of perfection.
Because we’re obsessed.

Does that moon,
the one that casts a faint glow against my side of the Earth
know that it exists?
As I look into the eyes of that large rock in the sky,
I wonder if it knows I exist.
Does it know that I look up at it at night,
that I stare and write poetry about it,
that I wonder about it’s own conscious?

Once upon a time
a long time ago
in a land far away
there lived a princess,
a damsel in distress;
with a hope
that one day
her life would be made whole
with a kiss from a prince.

A prince,
a hero  of sorts.
He’s fought dragons and
monsters and
thieves.
He defended his kingdom
with all his might
with the hope
that his life would be made whole
with a perfect
damsel in distress.

At the center of the tower,
the one in which the princess lives
is a man,
of an unfortunate, horrible
evil.
And just like the princess,
and the prince,
the antagonist, the
king
is just as cliché as the rest
with a hope
That he will rule the kingdom.

The one guarding the girl,
the damsel in distress,
is the monster -
the dragon,
the one from childhood stories.
He shoots fire from his mouth
the color of blood
and he defends
the princess with all his might,
with a hope that one day
he’ll taste the prince’s blood.

As dark and dreary
it stands alone at night -
hoping for solace.

Somber eyes
Fastened mouth
Broken fingers
As I stare out my bedroom window at the sky-
At an unidentifiable moon that seems to faintly glow behind its shadow.
Unknown to the rest of space,
Unknown to me.

Book


Filled with the dead trees
From our backyard.
It’s shell hard, yet soft, protective, gentle.
Covered in a picture, words,
And a name
That brands it as theirs.

The insides:
Scratched,
Torn because of anger
Fear
And disgust.
And all it can do,
Is bleed it’s dry
Black ink.

We take for granted,
These small,
Yet large pieces of art
The ones that tell us all about their life
And about the ones who created them.

They sit, quietly,
Solemnly,
Unfortunately,
Across the desk,
Lined up with their brothers
Unopened,
Unread.
Yet,
They have been read.

It’s the color of the sun
The one with rays that beat down
And warms your skin on a bright
Summer day.

It’s the daisy garden,
The one just outside your front door;
It’s scent, so fresh and sweet
Fills your nostrils with the smell of summer.

And the sweet, sharp wheat
The ones that make you sneeze
And yet you can’t help
But drag your fingers lightly against their flesh
And take in their musty scent.

Or the shutters of your neighbor’s cottage,
The ones with the soft pastel that stands out among
The white siding
And the pale door

It’s the bow in your daughter’s hair,
The one that she fought
But you insisted,
Because it’s beautiful
The way she looks in that hue.

And it’s the color of your happiness,
The one that shows through the bright smile
That stretches across your face
And bleeds golden joy.