Show me those eyes
They hold the grandeur
And the spectacle of the skies
Those beautiful eyes

Let me gaze into the windows
Of your soul - I'm mesmerized
As marvelous and lovely
And as vast as the skies
Those beautiful eyes

As I'm lost and entranced
In your gaze - time flies
Its as if I'm daydreaming
And embraced
By the awe of the skies
Those beautiful eyes

Just icing on the cake
Of a gorgeous soul - they mesmerize
So captivating and bright
Like the endless blue skies

Show me -
Show me those beautiful eyes

Hello, I'm not doing very well,
I think to myself.
I'd like to tell
You but my every apple, every cell,
Has been gutted and cored and you look so whole,
So pretty, such glow.
Hello? You're so nice on the eyes that
I never want you to know
The way I bleed through a shattered heart because these shards
Would poke holes
Through your sweet, sugar-glass wings,
Wings that could be delightfully clipped and pinned in a glass box
But I'd like to see you fly
Because it’d peal my dying, gutted mind from
All the empty apples inside
This holed up soul.

Such pretentious pretense presumes a plethora of personal pejoratives,
please pay the predicament proper attention previous to persevering with proposed promises of placation.

I’ve wanted pretty, soft, hands for as long as I can remember;
thin fingers,
long nails.
The kind that pair well with coffee mugs and bookstores.
The kind you don’t hesitate to kiss;
but mine are riddled with anxiety.
There are scars on my knuckles from walls  that didn’t deserve my anger
and I can’t seem to stop biting at my fingernails.
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I am the strong girl
who scales mountainsides
and presses my hips into the walls I once used to punish myself.
My hands haven’t been the same since I covered them in chalk and started gripping onto what has become a lifeline for me.
So,
       no,
I will never be the pretty girl with soft hands and thin fingers.
I will be the strong one.

Sure, she was
pretty.
Pretty as a doll.
Porcelain skin,
Stoic,
elegant.
Everyone said so;
therefore
everyone knew so.
But,
she was never beautiful.
Never having that smile that soars across your face, reaching the rising heights of your cheeks,
heat flowing through the cracks of your skin made from memories passed.
Encircling your eyes, forcing the green leaves to wither,
facing the tight chill of another winter.

Eyes awaken, olives on the branch
Skin turning fiery now… it’s laughter!
A shuddering of skin
juddering and jiggling
Cracks are forming where sapphire squeezes out and down the mountainside, leaving its trail.
Youth is wasted on the young?
As if youth is something to be owned.