There’s a bottle of my mother’s love Sitting on the kitchen table It’s gone sour It’s Sunday morning, In the piercing comfort of a place I once would’ve called home, And the world woke up and walked out on me
The aftermath of July grows right outside my bedroom window While I sit on a desolate strip of imaginary sand, With my head in a water cooler As significant as an ill-fated horsefly
Last night, I had my earlobes pierced. Prior, I had two piercings on my ears.
One on either side from my childhood, I can only faintly recall the momentary ache, not what came after
mom took me, as she had before,
the outcome will be worth it, she’d explained Bear the pain, it only lasts a short while. It won’t be long 'till the stinging subsides, and all that will be left, is a place you can adorn with glittering gold and shimmering silver and not-so-witty anecdotes and pretty metaphors,
So, I let myself be swept in her pace again, Two new wounds to be embellished.
Perhaps, I’ve regressed but it hurts more than it did before.
you have been wintergreen against my heart. a sharp brilliance of blinding light captivating me within the infinite breadth of a wandering moment. my lungs frosted first freezing figures of frozen firs upon the memory of each breath. my blood ran cold like that winter river and I was a fish beneath its icy exterior and you have been wintergreen against my heart. a cold slap of circulating change penetrating each layer of protection. you have been wintergreen through them all and now you are wintergreen against my heart. a fresh perspective from the core of my being to the scales of my skin. a permeating resolution of piercing glacial coolness frosting the valves and chambers of this brumal beater. you have taken my breath from gelid gilded gills and scattered the shattered pieces of peace across this boreal landscape. from the hiemal heights of arctic aurora aura's to the lower polar valley's suspended in diamond dust--you have been wintergreen among them all and now these roots are too--cool, clear and growing--and i have never been so grateful for the cold that pierced and kissed this wintergreen heart.
I don't understand Why anyone would want to be pretty When they could be unique I know that I would rather be me Than be pretty Sorry to say that looks ain't all that But trust me, It's the character that matters Not what the character's wearing It is more beautiful When the character does something That is pretty When they tell you How amazing the character looks And how everyone ought to be jealous I'm sorry, But I want to match my outside with my in And if my inside has purple hair, A lip ring And stretched ear lobes Then that's exactly what I want to look like Because to me, that's an action And you know that actions Are really what makes a story Real
So who here wants to be pretty?
I'm having struggles with my identity because I have been told so many times that I can't do what I want with my body, that I am believing it, and I still have not been able to be myself. So.
I met her at the Corner Pocket. She was bar tending. Her nose was pierced, so was her tongue, and her heart. She spoke of a Utopian city: A town of tree houses. She was in her third year of architectural school at Iowa State. Some dreams are best left unsaid.
The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes And I feel naked when I'm locked in her gaze In their shine are no shadows, no secrets, no lies The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes Every starlight, and comet, and brightest sunrise All that is dark or false is consumed in their blaze The lights of the cosmos are stored in her eyes And I feel naked when I'm locked in her gaze