If I get to wish upon a rose tonight All I want is to see your golden eyes.
I love the way your skin dances in the heat with not an inch of sweat while daunting your perfection. I love the way your eyes glisten as you catch a moonlit grace from heaven, so beautiful you offend the sun. I love the way your body sways as your hips swish when you know I’m watching. You’re too seductive for your own good.
But if I could wish for anything, I’d wish for you to drop the act. Take off that **** make-up, your skin’s beautifully dark brown, don’t change it. Get rid of that girdle, dear god those his curve without it. Take off that wig and those fake nails, baby girl, I know your nails look tacky, but your imperfections are perfect so tell me why you need to look like someone else. And of all the things, take out those blue contacts, for though I know the true color is brown, I can’t see the façade when your contacts are out. I can see naught when I stare at you Nothing but your golden eyes.
I get it, we all have demons, but why is it that yours only taunt me? Why is it that you have to insist on being difficult with me when I’m completely open with you? Why is it that you always say that I do something, but that same thing you say I do is being done? Honestly, you’re just wasting your pride.
My skin is soft and my mind unexperienced. Like cotton right off the stem. And when animosity hits it, I tend to be unprepared for such topics.
My body goes through constant cycles of supposed purification Like the separation of the cotton from its seed and the bleaching of its fruit. So when I realize my impurity, I tend to reject myself. For I feel that others would anyways.
My blood runs through my organs, and is altered in my heart Like cotton being twisted to threads. I crystalize like cane sugar as it drips off its heat made daggers, and I crush to dust under the weight of every decision that I make.
I was asked to do this, but I got on it late, so this is going to be an excerpt
The feeling of falseness in the eyes of spectators is so apparent that it makes her feel like decoration flowers. Petals glistening with passive aggression as a feature rather than a flaw. Stiff neck as a stem that never shrinks and always flaunts the tantalizing sensitivity of her femininity. Sensuous skirt that wraps around **** legs like two grassy leaves wrapping around a sassy stem. Like a rose, she doesn’t respect time. She is beautiful and wants everyone to know it. But she knows it’s only a face, she knows everything that everyone finds beautiful will wilt away and she won’t be so pretty anymore She knows that her delicate red will grow older and that her body will shrivel. So she replaces it with more false faces. Plastic pieces perpetrating personality. She is no longer a rose. She is a decoration. For though she holds onto it, her beauty has respectively faded. As she is no longer true. She has kept the rosy figure, but the ***** of her life has faded. And that which was beautiful will never be beautiful again. For nobody wants a dusty rose.
I told myself that I’d be a complete social chameleon, said I wouldn’t let anyone dictate what I liked. Turns out they were both lies. I told myself that I’d love me more than anyone else ever could, I said that my strength would be what ran my environment. Guess that wasn’t to be.
I itch for a relation but run from relationships. And I hate it so much that it burns like copper coils. It invades my lungs like air and breaks me down like bad *** kids near cardboard boxes.
But for some reason I identify with it now, it’s like, I’m intimate with loneliness. I can caress its jagged edged emptiness with the warmth of my fingertips at any given day, and it always responds. I can speak into its bitter silence and feel the echoes reverberate back to my lonesome ears, and it feels like I’m hearing someone else with my voice. I can kiss its luscious darkness and combine with it anytime imaginable, and it makes me feel loved by simply everything.
You can call it a wish. You can call it imagination or depression. But regardless of what you think, I’m in a single relation. And I hold hands with it proudly.
In truth, I am a Wildman swinging an ax. Where was the tree when I was burying my weapon into the helpless? Why am I still in a hush over the things I shouldn’t even be thinking about? Why do I call myself a poet and why is it that the kind of poems I do are about something that I’ve barely felt. It’s Ironic, isn’t it? My soul dries up as people soak each other in liquid love. My heart burns as people kiss around me. I don’t feel jealousy, just a longing. A longing for that taste that I used to know. A longing for the cuisine of love and all its benefits. For even though I only had a taste of something I considered basic I still hunger for what I had. I still hunger for that flavor
It’s like my life flashes before I can grip it I think too much about what I try to say, and always end up messing my words up. I can’t fix it. It’s grown on my Growth A product of time. A sapling is born in a soul, that soul is tormented and the sapling struggles for life. But the sapling endures in the freezing temperatures. It knows it will blossom to become a true self-revelation. When will this sapling become a tree? Only time will tell