Boys are like tissues. -unnamed Twitter follower

If they're soft, they usually have two sides.
Both sides, so smooth and delicate, easy
To rip apart and expose the inner roughness.
It's fun to tilt her head back and gently lay
One of the halves on her lips and blow
Firm enough to get them soaring
High on endorphins and ******
Them out of the air, crumple,
And toss into the trash with the rest.

If they're rough, they're good
For one use only. They may be irritating,
But they get the job done. It's cheap,
They come in bulk, and always
Fail to clean up the streaky mess
Left behind for her hand
To finish.

If she's lucky, they'll have aloe
And lotion and designer brands
Made for those who are hard
To please. She'll be spoiled
By the silky smooth shine
On her face, but not one
Can keep up with the wear
And tear of being used
Over and over and over.

Once they're damaged, they're done.
She can't use them anymore. They know
The tricks. They know how they've been torn
Apart and crumpled and disposed without thought.
The smaller the pieces, the harder they are to manipulate
And bend to her every will. With one gone, what does it matter?
There's still the rest of the box, or the pack, or the cylinder.
Fifty. Maybe a hundred. All the more to her disposal.
Yes, yes. She knows what they think of her.
They all throw and shout and spit
Those filthy labels at her face.
But it's just another
Tissue used.

Old, wise it stands
taking on the winter
adamantly with courage.
Brown and scarred on each limb enduring
winter's vigorous attacks.
Breath by Breath
faithfully holding onto the ground with strong, fierce roots
ever in peace hoping the cold winds don't come again.
That's a ridiculous thought the cold winds never cease to come back only for a moment the Earth stands still free of the cold, but the cold winds come back defiantly every time bringing winter storms along with it's brisk attitude. The tree may transcend the winter, but it still remembers all damage the winter ensues as spring enters in all it's warmth, and future growth to the tree's scorned figure.

My head tackled down,
viewing at the ground.
I dare not lift my expression,
as your eyes may meet mine.
It´s not that you don’t catch my interest.
Have faith in me when I say this.
But my eyes are the window to my soul.
I´m scared to show you, how badly I am wounded.
One look at me, and you will see, that I am damaged.
I am broken, and I am torn.
Ripped from joy, from happiness and from pleasure.
Your look pierce through my senses.
I tremble, with every single nerve in my body.
Frightened, that you might see who I really am.
It hurts me to expose all these wounds,
that I attempt so desperately to stitch.
I try, but I am too fearful to display myself so openly.
The wall of protection that I have built for myself is withering.
Lay your eyes on mine, and I will crumble.
For I have been strong for too long.
One taste of intimacy,
has me uncluttered, like the work of a world-famous artist,
exhibited for everyone to see.
And that, I am not ready for.

i am an architect
though my hand has been guided many a time
i have etched my own path
into a tome of starlight
but it is a path i will walk alone sometimes
and that’s okay

i am a writer
though my heart has been swayed into submission many a time
i will continue to be
the main antagonist of my story
but i bleed ink from my fingertips and i will write my own chapter
and that’s okay

i am a warrior
though i’ve wielded my sword many a time
i have seen many wars
and fought many battles
but it’s still the small victories i celebrate most
and that’s okay

i am a dancer
though i’ve tripped over my two left feet many a time
i have broken many bones
and danced still with a smile
but my feet grow tired and i must rest sometimes
and that’s okay

i am an artist
though my hands have often been stained
my heart is my masterpiece
and i’ve put it at the forefront of my choices
but maybe it isn’t the kind to go in a museum
and that’s okay

i am damaged
i am battered
i am bruised
but i am trying
and i am healing
and that’s okay