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But how can I get over
Something that was never mine?
Society: Love is all you need. Sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me. You are beautiful and unique, everyone is!

Me: Oh shut up.

If you just cannot seem to find love and need to live off of something else, if words CAN hurt you, (if you think they can't, I will cheerfully smack you with a dictionary (: ) and you hate being told you are beautiful as if that is gonna change your mind when you just do not see it then please repost.
Comment! I love to read comments!
Repost if you just cannot seem to find love and need to live off of something else, if words CAN hurt you, and you hate being told you are beautiful as if that is gonna change your mind when you just do not see it.
Comment! I love to read comments!
I don't wear makeup.
I don't want to.
I don't want a pretty face,
Smiling and nodding,
Lulling you into a false sense of security.

Children are being ****** out by their own parents!
People are being murdered by the officials meant to protect them!
There are people so scared of their emotions they would rather die than confront them!



And you're ****** because I don't meet the beauty standards you adopted from our society?


Everyone is being forced to say sorry
And smile
And giggle
To make themselves and others believe that the superficial problems they face are dire
And that when they solve that they've accomplished something
And that everyone is just swell.

Not me.


I'm more blessed than I'll ever know
More fortunate than I'll ever appreciate and I'll do my best to save everyone,
To fix what is wrong.

So if I become over zealous
And ***** up my face
And disturb you
And force you to reconstruct your worldview
I'm not apologizing

And if you hope to take solace on beauty afterwards
To seek comfort on the familiar
My face still won't be made up
Constructive criticism appreciated
To the one that might read this line,
I confess I don’t know this rhyme.
Will I ever stop?
Will this verse just drop?
I won’t write this line to be nine.
Bruises,
an amythest stain of spreading merlot
on white carpet,
the deep blue of the Belizean sea and
the hot weight of you beside me,
crimson blood and rising pain as I
scar myself because of you again,
the flat hazel of your eyes
the last time I saw you.  
Accusatory and pleading,
these bruises bleed fresh and tender
on the surface of my heart as I
will myself to forget you
for the last time.
I'm smelling ash that isn't there
And tasting beer I haven't drank,
I have you to thank.

I miss these dull temptations
Even all they've done is hurt me.
Leaving me was easy, how hard could it be?

These days I laugh,
I laugh with pain,
I can't even try to say your name.
Well, here's something. It isn't much, I guess. Charles Bukowski's "Cows in Art Class" stuck with me and here's something I cooked up from it.
She's the quiet one, who
never stands out the chick
who'll rather write a poem
than speak to a crowd.

The one nobody notices
when she walks down the
hall, the girl who's voice is
unknown but her mind's
full of thoughts.

She's the introvert, the girl
in disguise, the one who
builds up walls so her
life won't collapse.

The one whose tough
exterior in reality is
full of cracks.

She's a timid soul, a
daydreamer at heart,
creating the ideal future
while she tries to
forget her past.

The person who tells
her pains to a stranger
who asks, but can't
have a conversation
with those that are
by her side.

She's your classmate,
she's your sister and
friend, she's your
cousin and niece, she's
your aunt, she's your tale.

she's the girl that stares
back when you glance
at the lake, the one
no one knows, she is I,
she is her.
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