If you don't know how to punch, or how to have a good time, If you can't make a decision, you should know to flip a dime. Cover me in tattoos, Piercings galore, confidence is ****, without it you're a bore.
Like seeing the ghosts of the people I loved I scan through crowds and avoid their faces Faces as magnets attract my eyes My vision is blurry, it's time to go I stumble through hallways My head hangs low, Avoiding those faces as magnets.
The girl with the piercings The guy with tattoos That person whose hair is a dark grayish blue
Those people have faces as magnets.
A poem about my anxiety of running into old friends and making new ones.
Accept that only the good die young And the rest of us are here to stay I think I can cry in public Make you see me cry Whole and free you can tuck me in Your shirt pocket is my home You can place down the picture of my brother While we don't know how to love I take it off too quickly For you I would refrain from mistakes I would become what you make of me Style and sauce from my lips Hell and fury is our friend and fortune-maker Sorry for being your good girl They say that mistakes are meant to be lessons I'm learning how fun they are to repeat I'm still learning how to kick it Swinging like a child I don't know how to be right Just a single shot thrown back at my life
Firstly, I'm not a body-shamer. To each their own (a good phrase, though grammatically incorrect), But sometimes I find it hard to understand The tatoos, the piercings, the colors and placements. The usual answer, if I dare ask: I'mhxpressthinmythelf. Good for you. Does the diaper pin through your cheek Tell us you're a Dad or something. Na. The quarter inch bolt and nut through your ear? Are you a machinist or a plumber, or something? Na. The doll-house plates in your lips? Are you a Duck Dynasty fan? A member of the Audubon Society or something? No. I'mapontingxprschmyselpth! Sorry, what was that? I'mapontingxprschmyselpth. I'm sorry. I don't quite get what you're saying. I don't mean to be rude, But could you express those plates for a minute... I... I get it.
My body is not my own. My body belongs to my mother. Because every time I got a new tattoo I would ask if she likes it. And if course, she would say no And I would be upset because I actually liked it. But now I have snakebites. Two small holes below my lower lip And I'm absolutely terrified Of her finding out.
Painted walls Colored windows Wood benches A man on a podium Talking right and wrong
The boy with the piercings and tattoos Front row Kneeling hands folded head down
The collection gets passed around Judgement being passed around About this boy with the piercings
A lost soul looking for a home Trying to forgive and forget. Trying to repent and receive forgiveness.
"Go in peace"
People start leaving Talking to each other Giving thanks
The boy with the piercings remains Head down, hands folded, front row. Giving another prayer up A prayer of acceptance with these people He's just another lost soul like the rest Trying to find his home