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This sadness starts out
like sitting on a balcony in the evening and its cold so you slightly shiver but not cold enough to freeze
wraped in a blanket
holding a warm mug of coffee and lighting a cigarette, or two, or five
coffee is bitter with half tea spoon of sugar and full fat milk
then suddenly your mug is empty and the ceramic feels cold on your skin
- there is no more cigarettes to light
all thats left is a blanket that slowly slides off of your body
and now you are
Payton Feb 24
Darling, do not tell me that you are more beautiful with those drawings on your skin.
You've convinced yourself that they mean so much to you, and no one can even begin to understand, but I want you to know that the real beauty of an individual is more than simply skin deep.
That is why the ink on your skin does not impress me.
Everyone has stories and scars —I just choose not to wear mine on the outside.
This poem was written in 2016.
Disclaimer: I love tattoos and scars. I have some of my own. :)
I take off my summer skin,
peel back bronzed afternoons
and cleave through
those muggy mornings
you were still here

but not for long.
I wonder
What it is like
To be still.

It must be lovely
Not always shifting in your skin
And mind as well.

Is it even possible
To have that in this time?
Who can tell?

I don't know
But I hope one day
I will - you know, be still...
Leah Hilliges Feb 18
I stripped myself bare,
and let him paint his dreams
on my papery skin,
A feeble attempt
To restore life to that canvas,
That I fail to picture
Could be beautiful,
But when marked by deep scars.

Leftovers of love.
madi Feb 15
i understand now the importance of skin
your hands find mine in the dark and
my fingers caress cloth

it seems impossible to be close enough to you
your shirt is a barrier to
the beat beat beating of your heart
pressed together under the blankets, we feel like a secret
As I picked you up by the thorn, our love was bound for scarring. These ****** tattoo my skin, shades of black and grey--forever we are.
Ruheen Jan 25
Here I am;
Guessing and
Playing games with my hands,
As my feelings spill out
In front of me.

Carved my skin
A little thin
From my heart to my hands.
Then my nails dug in
A little deep.

Here I am;
In the sand,
Playing games with my hands,
As my feelings make patterns
On the ground.

Melanin shields my body
From the harsh
Ever present sun above;
Granting me assurance
Anytime i catch her rays
That cancer, shall
Not prevail over me.

My covering
Halts my youth
From crumbling,
Compelling all
To speculate my age.

Europe's offsprings;
Do not gaze at my blackness
With contempt,
Nor caste judgment on 
Me when a lover of trouble with
My complexion goes forth
Stirring trouble,
For all ethnicities
House impurities.
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