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Krizel Grace Apr 1
I'm but a scattered pigment
On the wall, on the ceiling, on the floor
I stained everything I touch or hold
Neither you nor them could easily get a grasp
'Cause I'll just slip through your fingers' gap

I'm but a messy art
A masterpiece by a frustrated god.
lua Nov 2021
light brown, tanned skin
sun-bleached tips and cracked lips
rough flesh touching flesh
the boy who calls himself the sun is rugged, messy
and handsome
pearly white, dimples in his cheeks
missing a tooth, he grins at me
so bright, i can barely stand him
but something tells me that whatever happens
he'll be there.
Lucy Apr 2021
All the songs have new meanings,
Not all of them good,
I’m experiencing so many feelings,
I feel the artists emotions,
Inside my heart is screaming,
Listening to music is like picking a scab,
I just hope in time I will be healing,
Right now music is a jumble to me.
her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way
she had an accidental class that she was not aware of possessing
she would answer your questions in a way that kept you guessing
when she would speak
she would make you believe
that she created language in the time that she had free
her hair was messy in an artfully, mesmerising way
she created language in the time that she had free
n stiles carmona Jan 2021
Hindsight, hallowed be thy name.

All I've got is luggage... luggage!
My God! Turn around; find my comrades slumped under the weights strapped to their spine!
Limping, bearing, burdened by non-negotiables while the High Court of Good Karma takes collective sabbatical —
and this knapsack of shame, I've partial credit in filling.

Grey handkerchief, original sin:
one. single. suckerpunch. and my fists are raised forever,
begging for the chance to swing and prove my own strength
— supposing the opportunity never fell into my lap — I'd said "**** it," packed a

hundred grams of bushy brushed-out curls, stop-sign red
fifty grams of lips to match (uniform too, now I think about it)
fifty grams of raccoon eyelids and coloured-in brows
hundred grams of halls of mirrors, circus-attraction Alice
lose a hundred/gain a hundred/repeat til dizzy
hundred grams of ******-in stomach, eyes averted in changing rooms
wigs by the armful — that's three — nom-de-plumes thrown in gratis
(it's only a journey to the rest of my life anyway, I'll need them,
alternative being cinematic debut as Myself)
hundred performances to imaginary audiences, less-than-stellar reviews
hundred grams of overwhelming then underwhelming "on purpose"
hundred grams of laughing off any belief in potential
hundred grams of scratch-marks and verbal fountains of venom
hundred grams of giving almostneverquite as good as I got
hundred grams of group-work alone thank ****(?)
hundred biro-holes stabbed in martyred pencil cases
feral in broad daylight spoiling for a fight
kilo of aiming for 'scary' and landing on 'strange'
kilo of being third to make good company a crowd
kilo of taking sixteen years to find Her
— Shadowboxer Fiona, rhythms invisible, catharsis in art —
hundred doodled superstitious evil-eyes in the ruled margins
hundred laments over the inability to provide a better future

(removed one by one whenever I think the future's mutable)

that one glimpse of white lightning in a violet storm
one single minute's pause to look over my shoulder
scarce-to-zero progress made
endless miles to go
breathless body soaked to the bone
and this useless! *******! bag! of Everything and nothing of value!!
mansions worth of loathing yet there's nothing to lose
did I decide that because I can't change the world, I can change nothing at all
(instead throwing darts at reflections/emotional *****/kicking stray dogs as a full-time hobby)?

O clarity so saccharine that I cannot be angered by the wasted years
I take it
   off my shoulder,
the first kind action I have spared myself in time unguessable
    air it out...
and trudge on
The world's enough of an uphill climb.
written after too much time poring over allen ginsberg. ambivalent about this but the alternative is endless writers' block so this way i've at least got something to show for myself
Nermine Marei Dec 2020

What is love all about?
Is it something we trust or doubt?
Does it make you fly and touch the cloud?
Or tied and stuck to the ground?
Or is it messy? So you decide to play around..
What if we trust love and say it out loud?
But no one heard that sound.
Do we leave and forget about the love we found?
Or indulge in love and be more profound?
Is love a choice or to it we get bound?


Faye Nov 2020
maybe it was a mistake
letting you strip me naked
my body exposed and my soul bare
when you couldn't do the same

but maybe i should've been patient
and didn't let these emotions run wild
but we can't really love each other
when we haven't healed from the past
(can't i be the one to heal you?)

maybe it was easy blaming you
so i could move forward
without ever looking back
for i can't break your walls

maybe we're both at fault
all those times we said some things
we didn't mean and regretted later on
where did we ever go wrong?

maybe we didn't try hard enough
and that we gave up too soon
is it even possible, love?
to water each other and grow together?

but through all of my maybe's
and the times we hurt and get hurt
the only thing i didn't regret—
was meeting and falling for you
maybe we're both a bit of a mess
but we loved each other still,
didn't we?
prim' Nov 2020
It’s one of those messy days
When nothing is quite right nor wrong
But ain’t life just a bundle of a lot of those messy days
Millie Oct 2020
The blue in her eyes
Complimented the blood on her lips
Her galaxy of freckles
Were magnified by tears
The further she rose in the world
The lower she sank on her floor
A perfect mess
But she was mine
Millie Sep 2020
The cut down her lip was perfectly straight
As if it had been purposely crafted
It slowly oozed one red drop
She didn’t stop it
Rather, accompanied it with her tears
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