I am small like a child,
wet face pressed against a massive chest. His arms crush me gently, wrap me in a shroud of sinew and bone as the smell of bourbon and musk fills my nostrils. His breath feathers lightly across the top of my head; reassuring whispers tickle my spine and tell me I am not wicked, I am not a useless, hopeless thing. I am perfect and flawed. I am loved. It is enough.
She's written with crimson red blood,
Unceasingly flowing From her invisible cuts. Dressed with carefully picked enthralling wordsー Seemingly fitting, seemingly perfect But as you read between the lines, You'll be wrapped with her gloomy wilting vines. She could either be a riddle And leave you bewildered, Or she could be an answer And shed light upon you. For she's a sad poem But beautifully written. ©kg
You may be older by little,
You may not have all the greatest of looks, Your teeth are as rotten as coal. You may be skinny as bones.... But to me, i see.... A man with a loving smile, A man who has deep ocean blue eyes that glow up a room every time you cry, A man with a heart and soul, Tender lover. Innocence. An imperfect man can seem so strange, until you see the other side of his world, where a man so *******, or beast like.... becomes a man you see through your eyes... that you truly, love.... I love a beast
The distorted utopia swallows
me in into the bed of ghosted souls among the thorns of lies that pile on with twisted smiles and words of sugar. The deserted lands that once saw joy lay parched with fear of pain. The permanent is the new flaw, That drives the winds of pleasure away, as I hide in my shadows.
When I was younger
I always thought My family loved each other Not unrealistically like in the movies But more in their humanly And flawed way But now that I am older I wonder if it was love at all It all feels like an illusion To cover up the rotten core Of greed and pride
Between the lines
of now and then, you’re drawing me with ink and pen. Every ridge and every curve you’re carving out what I deserve. Tangled veins and knotted hair, a thunderstorm of senseless care. Between the breaths of God and man- You’re writing me just as I am. With fractured bones and black-hole eyes, painted purple, ringed with lies. All I am is what you see and what you make is all I’ll be.
Flawed by creation
I am very much human Please world, accept it
My mind is a riot...
So much I'm thinking about... So much to make sense of... I hope the world can be accepting of that fact that we're human and that no one is perfect Let's embrace it... Much love Lyn 💜
If we were the mirror of our creation
and not made in perfect silhouettes. Then we aren't the creation of perfection, as were flawed beyond our sell by date. Then that which made us is imperfect in its design. So not omnipotent, flawed in its own blueprint. And so just another pebble in A dry pond where wishes die.
For he hurled the stone,
casting it with anger... And so the first sin was sewn.. For the wrath of another showed that we were the picture of god, If we were imperfect, then our creation was flawed beyond the reflection of our birth. The stone was never perfect but flawed when created.