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A nose job
A good job
Rhinoplasty
Ugly nose
Remodels it
To fit the face
Brings grace
Heightens
The image
What kind
Nose job
What kind
Rhinoplasty
For a nose
Casting a slur
Turning ugly
Face society
Without
Being shameless
Payton Feb 24
I used to think that
there were these little bones in my heart, and
when they got broken, the doctors would put
a bright pink cast on my heart.

But it doesn't work like that.

You can't put a cast on your heart, and even if you could,
there isn't a cast big enough to hold every single piece
my heart has broken into.
There isn't a glue strong enough to put it back
together, and keep you from breaking
it, yet again.

I had an elderly lady look on me and say "one day you're going to be a little heart-breaker to a bunch of boys."
And I'm sure I was before now.

So next time you adorn yourself with such a label as,
"Heart-breaker," perhaps you should imagine
what it would be like when someone breaks your heart.

The most exquisite truth of all is this:
I may be broken.
I am not
d e s t r o y e d.
This poem was written in 2016.
Shannon Soeganda Dec 2020
You are nothing but a pretty face---

and for all the words birthed from your soft,
pouty,
supple,
unkissed sunkissed lips---

or the ones written down with your tiny,
\\ slanted //
handwriting;

they are nothing but empty,

meaningless blatherskites.
Their kisses remind me of all these empty amens.
Sure this one won't be any different.
Michael Luciano Nov 2020
I watched as she was cast out of a bolt from the blue.
A smile on her lips so beautifully askew.
As her feet touched the earth she danced into the light.
Like a drifter in the shadows dashing through the night.
Her eyes can make you smile hips will make you shake.
She is dawn's wishful goddess brought to earth for heaven's sake.
Naked as Godiva through my mind she cut like pain.
Tearing into the warm summer night bold with brazen fangs.
Caught and cast a sail like a ship upon the sea.
She swam in the moonlight sweetly.  while the night did eagerly recede.
Her beauty warms the sunshine filtered through the leaves of trees.
That shade her eyes that have seen infinite eternity.
Naveen Malhotra Oct 2020
After laying me on the bed
His agents were on the task
I was taken to the Cath Lab
My heart was thoroughly investigated
His agents told Him there's no sin inside
He made His considered opinion
He declared me the winner
He had a word of caution for me
You have undergone bypass in the past
Your heart falls in sensitive class
Strictly follow your regimen
Take all necessary precautions
Lay aside all your fears
There's no sin inside you dear
Yet you don't qualify for my heavenly Kingdom
I need to cast you further on the anvil
Making you first a better human
You stay on this planet
Till further decision, further orders
O Lord I bow before You
I am grateful for this decision
I shall abide by Your every order, every decision!
mayur Oct 2020
though he looked calm
he was worried all the way
as his sons carried him on their broad shoulders.

the dead brahmin, finally smiled
as he was laid
on the funeral pyre
made of finest sandalwood 
from the forest around.

that was his last wish to his sons,
you must use chandan and nothing else.
don’t give me to some low-cast corkwood
even before sum of my deeds is calculated,
i know, on the pyre, it will burn me, to the hell.
cast has created division in indian society for thousands of years, it so deeply rooted that even today it still shows scars of past and deeds of presents
Orakhal Jun 2020
A
victims
line of sight

be
cast thru
its predators eye
anonymous Jun 2020
Yesterday I was black,

Today I am frightened,

Tomorrow I’d be lost.


I thought we were all humans,

A creation from God,

I didn’t know I would be treated differently

like a fraud.


Am I a ghost,

Why does everyone run?

I’m not a criminal

No, I’m human.

So, why do you point a gun?


Religion, class, cast

Black, brown or white

I thought these mindsets were in the past,

I thought everyone were finally all right,


But I guess I was wrong.


So I run, keep running

from this little world,

But I don’t know where to go,

How starved you must have been,

that my heart became a meal for your ego.
annh Apr 2020
Spin,
Mister
Fisherman,
Throw me a line;
A fluttering lure of burnished vowel chimes

Bait, braid and bailor - snap, swivel and fly;
Dub well your quill,
Hook me low,
Run me
High

‘The reality, however, is that fishing is about the closest you can get to physically experiencing poetry. It is a pursuit based on contemplation and solitude that involves an appreciation of the elements; it is a game of chance, hope, escapism; a step into the murky waters of the unknown. There is little difference between the angler setting forth on a misty dawn and the poet staring at the blank page. Both are hoping for greatness, but will settle for a brief silvery flash of the transcendental brilliance that lies beneath the surface.‘
- Ben Myers

Fishing parlance is a language as complex and arcane as the sport itself. What a happy coincidence to discover that a ‘quill’ in angler-speak refers to a float (or bobber). How ‘bout that? ;)
Jay M Nov 2019
Student
Racing about
Scattered here and there
Learning all it can
Then, somehow
Reading a work
So inspiring
A true keeper of knowledge
Hidden among them

Seeking improvement
Of works and self
But so occupied
Barely time for such
In a hurricane of stress
Pressure and emotion
Far beyond itself
The student tried
A deed so selfish
Then reflected
A work resembling the moment
Easing themselves in part
That it was released
But horrified
Of what could have been

Looking up
To their mentor
A keeper of knowledge
Held in high respects
But when seen
At the weakest
Cast away
As one of millions
But the student
Wished
Yearned
To be more than one of millions
Pleading to be taught
To be made an apprentice
Alas
No more
No more

- Jay M
November 6th, 2019
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