Dorian Jun 7

Self-Pity is a weed
As black as the crow
On weakness it will feed
We can fight it though!

At ones lowest ebb
Strength will slowly dry
In the deadly spiders web
No one can hear us cry

Once life was clear
Enemies were but few
That past we hold so dear
Resisting what is new

Seeking solace in these rhymes
Making sense of pain
My is excuse is harsh times
From real life I refrain

the gutter is where  I skulk
Feeding off past's crumbs
Woes rapidly bulk
In these shadowy slums

Hearing truths cold hiss
Evasively I ignore
Miles from precious stasis
Im an ocean from that shore

shaking like a leaf
Heart a throbbing drum
Denial a possessive chief
I'm held under his thumb

These feelings come alive
When I am alone
A bee without a hive
Terror starts to hone

Ravaged by pollution
Soul black and raw
I must find a solution
To the light I must start to claw

An epic fight to face
Truth will set me free
Or I'll forever chase
What was meant to be

No editing or correcting. I'm sure plenty of errors. But let me know what yo think
AB May 17

How I
See myself,

Is not how
You
See me.

Thankfully.

janelle May 14

you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars

tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do

you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen

i am aware that the title seems illogical but i thought it would be a good one to catch your eye and warm your heart.
Praline Poet May 4

My love,
if only we could write with two hands
And not get tired when night comes
If only the heat didn't hurt us so bad
And the bus rides didn't make us sick
My love,
the tension that you're
keeping in your wrist
you can let it go now
Look
If only you had always understood
Do not create demons
in a place where there are none
Feel your heart
You're safe here
Come, let's go
to a place where there are none
And your eyes grow heavy
when the steam glows

Praline Poet Apr 17

A tunic
Candles
Cooking
Fresh air coated with cloads
Movement
Deep breaths
Wrapped around your ankles
Secrets
Courage
Strategy
Whisper to me
No fear
Books and Mirrors
Sureness in your Eyes
Bathe
Water
Knowledge is Power
Write it
No one will get it
Power
Make no mistake
No self-doubt
Side effects
That vase, challice
A name like Gold
A name like yours
Hair growing
Longer
Time's pregnant
Banana bread
In a car
Love
Together we have power
Never give it up

I wish I exuded in the way you did
Laughter so porous
Everyone's choking on the chorus.

or varicose veins
to those doctors definitists with or without them
me i call mine “disconcerting” and “homely” they are not
the result of poor diet
lack of exercise a weak heart
or a passive cardiovascular system
but of heritage and pedigree and
a genetic lottery i did not win
up the inside of my thighs crawl pale distorted crags
and newborn ruddy lightning
a bloodied patchwork of stretch marks that drag
themselves up to the cradle of my pelvis
and wrap clumsy arms around my hips
my legs await the distortion and corruption of time
yet at seventeen have already begun their heady work
long twisting and sickly a grotesque lace
of my veins pushes through bland mole speckled skin
to emerge disgusting and putrid
like the terrors of children’s nightmares
terrifying not for tooth and nail
but the rotten repulsive pelt
my mental soliloquy before my audience (the mirror)
is a series of silent pleas and malcontented muttering
would that i were slimmer there thinner here
more graceful and pleasing to the idle eye
smooth skinned and dewy eyed
not thick and tired and slow
a little more color and vigor to sallow white skin
more beauty more beauty more beauty more beauty more beauty
i tell myself my self conscious vanity my self disgust
is a product of patriarchy and objectification
that i am and always will be a mind not a body
that if i let myself be this way i am shallow
and conceited and vain and no amount of arguing with myself
will decrease my superficial nature if i care about appearances
dressing up is a way of making myself externally attractive
and hiding the internal eternal abyss
the eyeliner attempts
are only a way to draw eyes to mine because i want them to look
into these innervated wastelands and see something attractive
but i am falling into that abyss of shallow
existence and slipping into a weak and meaningless soul
that can be washed away in the flood of the masses
read jung and freud tear through sun tzu and nietzsche and forget
about the poor player who struts and frets their hours upon the stage of life
who wanted to be pretty
wanted to know beauty
wanted to dig into themselves
and come up with fistfuls of worth

This is an ode to my own self love
Because tonight I forgot who I fucking was
I was looking at a profile with the guy i was on a date with and he said that the girl in the picture was pretty and I asked what about her is pretty and as we scrolled through the pictures he said I like the ones where she looks normal
And when this motherfucker meant normal
I knew he meant white
He mean blonde haired, blue eyed, perfect skin and white teeth
And I looked at myself I knew I was none of these things
My skin is not white, neither are my teeth, and they are crooked
Like my skin, which is not flawless, no Beyoncé, I did not wake up flawless
My hair is dark brown, almost black, but that's my natural color
I've been bleaching it blonde since I was twelve
What the fuck does that tell you
I got my first two tattoos when I was eighteen
And I saw how the girls face had no piercings
And I looked at my 00 gauges and my septum, cartilage, tragus, and second hole piercings
And I wanted to rip them all off
I wanted to scratch my tattoos off
I wanted to take my hair off
I wanted to rip my skin off
I felt inadequate
I felt like I could never be enough
Well I'm tan and unconventional
So that means I can never be fucking loved
So this is an ode to myself:

Dear Ella,
Look at me,
Thick body, with curves that slay like Beyoncé's
Glasses thick so you can see your own beauty
Lipstick dark like the shade of a ruby
And you don't care
You don't care what anyone thinks because you know you rock it
Your blonde and brown hair is unique, no one else can rock it
Your piercings are a part of you, that's why you fucking chose them
The same thing with the tattoos, girl, that's why you own them
They have meaning to you, they're beautiful to you
So what the fuck does what this guy thinks phase you
The way you do your makeup is beautiful,
Your style is beautiful
And every scar on your arm is important to you
So don't pretend that what he thinks is more important than what you do
Love yourself, girl, because without you there would be no you

-E (c) 2017

A Tango Feb 22

Feeling unhappy;
that I'm not good enough
Unconvinced and in despair,
Disbelief in my own
act and decisions

I am doing the best I could
to meet the expectations;
thus I am frustrated

Why am I putting
a lot of pressure on myself
just to seek attention?

I am trying hard
until gratified
Why am I still unfulfilled?

In fact, I am scared
I fear that I may fail
and may not reach satisfaction

It feeds my self-doubt
perhaps I am good-for-nothing

Leigh Marie Dec 2016

My dad loves me most when he's drinking
he cares about me transiently
so maybe thats why I
look for gyspy love
maybe I like the surprise of
not knowing if you'll love me tomorrow
or maybe it's just what
I deserve

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