You in your full bloom, at peace,
like swirling honey in warm milk,
made of rich pigment and velvet petals.

take a breath, and paint a picture,
of the transient atmosphere,
and you swaying with the ocean breeze.

send it to that part of you
that is lost in endless worry.

Petite, pixie tangerine
As mawkish as the taste of something saccharine
Ludicrous, gawky pair of vague hoops
Forbidden with the cheapest boos

Body's wrapped in a fiery Mongolian coat
Personality-shelves loaded with gloat
She is made of silver and gold
Though in three hundred and sixty-five days,
She had lost courage, had lost hope

The juvenile decided to go red in rust
Like her heart, her blood, her wrath, and her pampers
She puffily cries for help and for the pity,
For the exposed and the logical ******,
Thereby, her cheekbones bulged inhumanely,
Stock-still, specked with a festoon of Simper

Such an extravagant trailblazer
A Sangria wine in hand and a fruit ****
With a similar gleam of her deep, raspberry gloss
And the way her chapped lips touched the rim,
It's not as fascinating as it seems,
Because she knows on her part that her heart is lost

You showed
me your true colors
so I used you  
as pigment on an
already messy canvas,
because it’s my turn
to do the manipulating.

I wish my hands
were big enough
to sculpt mountains.

My own masterpiece
cannot hurt me.
I’m no longer
afraid of you.
I can no longer miss you
or be hurt by you.

Maybe you should
have used me
more beautifully.
But it’s okay
because I needed
the material.

More so,
race is the central
organizing principle in society

© Matthew Harlovic