they are like constellations of stars
flung across the infinity of my cheeks.
they are like suns and moons
my face is the cosmos.
my face is a blank canvas
and they are the paints.
my face is the water
and they are the ripples that run through it.
my skin is my own
and they are there.
even when i don't want them to be
they will be.
just like everything else, normal.
i've struggled with bad skin for a long time, and have slowly come to realise that no matter how well i eat, how much sleep i get, how much i wash my face or how much i exercise, its a factor of my life and i just have to accept it! having acne doesn't make you ugly, its a part of you that you have to learn to accept, because if you fight something it will just get worse.
love burns me with the fire of one thousand
blazing tongues of flame and heat
i welcome it to me and slowly
the beast quietens
only the breath of the slow moving ocean tide can ride the beast's hate away
to melt like ice in cool water
time heals the wounds born of fire and the beast sheds it's slippery skin,
the old, sad man with a face barren as winter trees,
the fire-bred spirit spitting magma
becomes not a beast but a simple light.
a candle, a night light for a child so scarred
only a mother's love can rekindle the flame of hope
and that is what love becomes.
love, the beast.
love, the beast?
walking past fountains of roses,
she caressed them with her hands.
soft petals kissed her fingers and
thorns, piercing the pads of her fingertips.
wandering to the golden pond, lying
letting her hands play in the fronds of the grass,
flicking up glistening emeralds of water that
in the sun.
new life so quickly taken.
written whilst listening to your song by elton john
spurted as if from fountains atop messy beds
of lilies and lilacs,
jumbled together in a rush of colour that
seemed to have more and more detail
the more you gazed at it.
the sun shone
over the garden like liquid honey
melting over the peeling paint
of the white trellis that held
and heavily scented jasmine in its grasp.
and there, glazing the morning garden,
lay an aureate, flaxen
written while listening to i'd like to walk around in your mind someday by vashti bunyan
she sped down the hill;
the cool wind flying through her hair and dancing
on her creamy, golden skin.
speckled with freckles,
her smooth hands gripped the handle bars
of her bike.
the machine seemed to quiver
under her fingers and
being a little old and rusty,
let her fly
on oiled springs
and rubber pedals.
written while listening to landslide by fleetwood mac
— The End —