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Payton Hayes Feb 2021
Darling, do not tell me that you are more beautiful with those drawings on your skin.
You've convinced yourself that they mean so much to you, and no one can even begin to understand, but I want you to know that the real beauty of an individual is more than simply skin deep.
That is why the ink on your skin does not impress me.
Everyone has stories and scars —I just choose not to wear mine on the outside.
This poem was written in 2016.
Disclaimer: I love tattoos and scars. I have some of my own. :)
Jillian Jones Sep 2019
Just because you do not find the beauty
in words and poems,
in drawings and paintings,
in colors,
in the waves of the grass
or the bark of a tree,
does not mean
that I should not too.

I should not be out-casted
for finding beauty in things that
you do not.
My opinions do not change your view,
Why should yours change mine?

maybe, for once,
take the leap, take the chance
in finding beauty in something other than
what you think is normal.
Not until you take that chance
can you tell me that my views are wrong.

-the ballet of a dreamer j.j
Lua Apr 2019
I want to paint you
And captivate all your details in my mind
I want to draw your face over and over again
Until I memorize all of your lines
To the slight curve of your nose
Until the perfect shape of your eyes
Looking up so thoughtfully, wanting to fly
I want to take you to the skies
Just to see the pure blue color reflect on your skin
I want to take you to the most distant beach
So I can captivate how the color of the sea
Can shape your lips into little smile
And become to exact same color of your eyes
As they look at me
The only one that could draw you
Even without looking
Because I already memorized all of your lines
In my mind
memoona kazmi Mar 2019
they asked me to describe love in three words,
paintings,books ,poetry,
i replied
McDonald tsiie Apr 2018
the first time i saw her stretch marks i
saw beauty as a landscape formed,
lightning collapsed on her earth
captured by my lavender mind
i painted cosmic energy on
her body, oil on canvas ii
created a portrait my
fingertip a brush as
i drew a valley of
a thousand hills
on her fragile
Evie Richards Dec 2017
There are vines on my hands.
                                                          ­       -They're creeping up my spine-
They're twisted and they share wicked smiles
                                                      And­ their smiles aren't meant for me.
I wrap them around my fingers
                                                        ­Their darkness appealing as death,
With poison made of ink.

I weave in flowers,
                                                        ­             They're painted all in black
In the hopes of distracting from how I'm trapped.
                                                        ­                      But I like it that way;
They're small and pathetic.
                                                       ­                     They're a mess like me.

But it's not just the vines.
                                                          ­       There are eyes on my skin too
My hands are covered in everything I can't say.
                                                            ­       They watch my every move.
You just have to get close enough to look -
                                                                ­              - Watch out; they bite
They're hidden in the vines.

      The vines on my hands.                         *The vines on my hands.
Stephen Gospage Oct 2017
Up there, two lovers stood still, face to face,
While life raced by, at its frenetic pace.
Some days and nights went by; the people talked.
And in the cool of autumn time, some chalked,
Upon inviting spaces on the wall,
These drawings of the lovers and their fall.
taia Aug 2016
cookie tins and tea
your faded grade school drawings
and her chipped birdbath
i always find it strange when you visit someplace you spent so much time in as a kid, like a friends house, but when you return nothing has changed. it makes me feel twelve again.
Lunar Jul 2016
Your broken guitars,
My finished sketchbooks--
That's how we are right now.

No more songs meant for me,
No more completed portraits of you;
We're blank and make no sound.

What if, back then, I had stayed?
What if, back then, I had fought?
Would I have loved you til the end?

What if, back then, you had found me?
What if, back then, you felt the same?
Would you have held on to my hand?
This is written from a viewpoint in the future: the time when you stopped loving him because you gave up. All because of the phrase, "What If". Because you have said "what if we are not meant to be?" in the past, now in the present and in the future, you ask yourself "what if we were meant to be?"

Written for Koreen. Please don't give up on loving him. No matter what.
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