My mom was angry
My sister didn't understand
Thought I was insane for spending that much
On a tiny bottle of foundation
But what they don't realize is
This bottle of heavy duty
Full coverage
Long lasting
Foundation
Gives me confidence to wear my hair back
Out of my face
Bright lipsticks
Dramatic eyeliner
And not feel like I want to die
And that is
Priceless

Of All the make up
The eight new creams
I just can't hide it

I

That idol, with black eyes and pixie-cut, with
aristocrats nobler than artists, holier than New York City
hipsters; his selfishness running through her veins,
purple and blue like blood, or tarnished by amphetamines
in waves of ferocious sadness and yearning.

At the border of her life- young hope twinkles, fades
and dulls out- the girl with chandelier earrings, deer
legs, dancing in silver reflections of tears gushing
from the aftermath of shattered dreams dressed up
as vivid illusions.

Ladies who stroll outside of society, girls
plucked from art school, with trust funds, superb luxury
wardrobes, jewels on show but riches hidden in the
ground of trusting valleys in burnt gardens- young and
broken with eyes full of flashing lights, sullen, princess
of costume and keeping hidden. Gently ignored and
choked, unhappy.

What boredom, without your "genius."

It is she, the little girl, dead before innocence-
The young artist, alive, does not stoop- his life
creeks but for a second. His inspiration empty
and studio up for sale. Her shutters pulled down
and the key to superstardom in the lock forever
because the soul is empty.

The city's silver fountains drowned and cried for her
fabulous elegance.

II

I am the life who mourns like blue summertime.

I am the academic who waves manuscripts on
elusive "culture" and "style."

I am the pedestrian who looks up to the sky then turns
to the ground. Smoggy greyness and dead black
concrete pleads me to keep searching.

I might well be the same child; lost and unhappy
and hungry. Dreaming of touching stars but miles
from Heaven.

I am the artist. Manipulative creator and selfishness
embedded into the sinews of my heart.

The lamp shines brightly on these happy photographs. I
keep falling for these stupid books. Edie, oh, Edie.
You have gone and the world is ending!

She's beautifully chaotic
a whirlwind of makeup and hoopla
she'll kick bushes on her way;
to a can of beer and a good comic book

Peer into the compact mirror
And disguise the trails
Of dried tears
With beige powder.
Cover up the road map
Etched into your foundation.
Now, pull yourself together,
Drag your *** out the door.
And don't forget to fake a smile.
It's all about putting on a show
And suffering in silence.

God knows I'd rather do that
Than open my mouth.

He was looking at me
But I was looking at the waiter
He finally lose me
He was so egotistic
His ego got in between us
It sawed right in half of our bonded heart
Last night I left him
Last night I left him in the dark

Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.