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With eyes like that,
you could rule the world, baby.
Irises that gleam like
beautiful brown pearls
in between those eyelashes
clams could only dream
of becoming.
Noses are hard to pick
With mouths I can be chewsy
Better eyes are hard to spot
Because my favorite face is you-sie
My eyes, that I carry in my hand.
They let me hold the beauty of this land.

Just a square, it’s not much to revel,
Even with its grid and with its level.

It goes beyond some glass and metal,
It opens my heart and mind just like a kettle.
The steam and scream find their place in self esteem,
Because through these eyes the world gives sighs,
And I finally find a reason why life looks oh so green.
An hour or two before dawn, I walk the town streets
anticipating new perceptions night's cover may reveal.
I love a clear path; preferring the world cool and quiet
darkly uninhabited.
Those streamlined mobile garbage cans
have mostly stopped droning noise and spewing
soot. Without many of civilization's distractions
the planet shows itself to be virtually undiscovered
majestic, strangely unsettling. When sun
finally prevails, bustling groups of groggy
day-walkers reclaim, the landscape. Pity is due
these beings; they have, for too long
communally viewed the environment
acquiring overly acclimated minds.
This precludes them from ever perceiving
an unearthly Earth whose alien beauty
haunts me.
I see the depth of the ocean in your blue eyes,
With all its amazing secrets,
I see the beauty of the paradise on the beach of your eyelids,
Calm and peaceful,
I see salty puddles of raindrops fill the pupils of your eyes,
I hope they are of joy and not sorrow,
For I want to drown in your eyes filled only with happiness.
Open your eyes and look at me,
So I can be reborn again,
To find the secrets in your heart,
And the intentions of your soul.
Please let me be the beholder of your eyes,
And a complete portrait of your memories.
Luna Jay 17h
The walls,
They fall.
The minds,
They crumble.
The teeth,
They shatter
On contact
With your words.
The skin suits,
They wither.
The single identity crisis,
They splinter.
Into a man’s
Multiple personalities.
The tears,
They spill.
The spines,
They chill,
The hope,
They lost forever and
A day ago.
And nothing is left
But the measly foundation;
Rotting and infested
With termites.
I’d cut off my own ear and mail it to you,
To be your very own personal listener-
But I’d rather gouge out an eye of mine
And mail it overnight via amazon prime.
For it has seen many tragedies,
As opposed to just hearing them.
Through the lens of a camera, everything appears far away. It's easy to feel nothing when you designate yourself a spectator.
My girlfriend was a spectator. All the time, she was carrying a camera in her delicate, pale hands. My mother had a name for delicate and thin hands: "artist fingers." My girlfriend used to call herself an artist.
"Mom, do you think Rebecca is a good girlfriend to me?"
My mother looked at me. Her glasses reflected the light from the living room lamp. I couldn't see her eyes. I was petting my cat while I spoke to her, and as I looked at my mother, my grip tightened. She opened her mouth to speak.
My girlfriend broke up with me via a Skype call. I watched her through the camera. She didn't look at me. Our relationship lasted a year and a half. I sobbed. She didn't look at the camera. It's easy to be a spectator. It's easy to not look at anything.
I raised my eyes.
My best friend was watching me. "Can you move your leg a little?"
Once I did, he lifted his camera. He took some pictures of me.
"Vincent... can I talk to you about something?"
He paused, and then lowered the camera.
"I had a fight with Rebecca."
Something in his eyes changed. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would have missed it.
January. "She said bad things about you."
My heart beat a little harder. My lungs hurt.
"I don't care."
I didn't look at him.
We were lying side by side. I looked at her. I had given her a necklace of guitar picks. It rested on her collarbones.
Suddenly, I said, "If we break up, promise me you're not going to throw away the necklace."
She looked at me. She had blue and green eyes, so beautiful. My mother often said that she had striking eyes.
"I promise."
I remember how, during our dates, she used to take pictures of the sky. I found it cute.
Vincent always thought that it was cliché.
My psychologist was watching me. "I'm not judging you."
I was silent. I looked at my fingers. Thin. Fine. I was an artist too. But she was the artist.
"How can you know that I'm not judging you if you don't look at me?"
A moment. She leaned back in the chair. Another moment. I remember that I could hear the ticking of her clock.
It came quietly. "Sorry."
I was at a party, talking with a pretty girl. The noise of the party seemed muted, somehow. Suddenly, she took one of my hands.
"I like your hands. You have such beautiful fingers."
She looked at me.
"Like an artist."
I looked at her. She had brown eyes, like dark chocolate. Striking. She was smiling just a little bit. If you hadn't been paying attention, you would have missed it. I laughed.
"Like an artist..." I repeated.
She laughed too, a little embarrassed. Her laugh was joyous, almost musical.
I smiled.
so i know this isn't a poem per se, but i wrote it for a short story class and i wanted to share it. enjoy!
At home mum had the last say,
All members of the family looked up to her everyday,
Times have changed,
She passed away, wise and aged.
Before she went,
Her last advice to me she sent,
Dear, you too have a large family,
And if you want peace and be happy,
Keep your eyes open,
Your ears open,
But your mouth shut,
Let the problems sort themselves out.
Let you be their Godess Statue,
Wise and astute.
An elderly person at home is for advise.Young people nowadays hate interference.
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