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I saw my skin as clouds of creme in coffee,
As the caramel within a toffee,
As the swirls of detergent in a bucket,
I love my skin, I remind myself lest I forget.

I saw it as an imperfectly mixed pasta,
As an unstirred Irish creme liqueur,
It reminds me of the side of me that’s a gangsta,
Like the work of a passionate newbie restaurateur.

It is mine, my own
No different than my blood or my bone.
I don’t need to alter it,
Let the others adjust as they see fit.

It took me quite a while,
But my skin too began to smile.
The efforts of a village it took,
So, lest you forget, love the way you look!
This poem has been penned as an ode to vitiligo. It is not a cry for help, nor does it invite pity parties. Rather, it represents the splendidness of the human body, and how truly life-altering self-love and acceptance can be.
Having said this, I'd like to affirm to the masses that even if a cure for vitiligo miraculously did appear, i would not take it. The speckled, marbled and patchy skin I now call my own, is MY NORMAL, and quite frankly, it's the only one that matters :)
There once was a family of clouds,
Blue were their noses and blue were their shrouds.
Amongst them lived 3 outcasts, though
As though through the blue, someone had brazenly run a plough!

Blotchy, whitey and marbly let’s call them,
Of the big blue sky, they were the beautifully botched hem.
The smurfy blues didn’t think so, alas!
And neither did the the puppets on the ground, peeping through the looking glass.

Rain was their saviour,
For amidst those tears, no one would notice their stark behaviour.
The smurfy blues covered them up,
Lest someone see their erroneous turf.

Then shone the sun one fine day,
And like rising phoenixes, the castaways came out to play.
For a thing such as beauty, ever so fickle
They were a miraculous honey-hued trickle.

The puppets on the ground too swapped their loyalties,
And soon the alleged drops of milk were favoured royalties.
The sky too embraced the cotton-ous hue amidst the smurfy blue,
And just like that, their fairytale slowly came true.
Among the scarce literature found regarding vitiligo, you would only find a single perspective i.e., the autoimmune warrior's. What about the spots themselves, I ask? How must they feel when their owner themselves wage a daily love/hate war? Aren't they bullied by their skin-coloured "normal" neighbours? Don't they get confused by their changing appearance?
This poem deals with THEM. And not unlike their owners, they too are ruddy steel-hearted, mind you!
Emilia Glinka Jan 27
The looks of our children
combination of both our positives and negatives
from our different points of view
raised in the mixing of our worlds
the stance where it becomes their own
a product gaining independence
and the ability to be recognized for its uniqueness
not as a mix
but as a new form
were similarities may be found
maybe it gained your eyes
the ones I get lost in
or perhaps my smile
the one you so often bring to life
but their words remain true to their soul
in the hope of finding its match
the one to spark the cycle anew
creating the unique once more
I haven't written much, but I figured this was worth posting! Hope you have a great day!
lola Dec 2024
A box.
Like water, we fill the shape in which we fall.
In a box too big, water seeps in, grasping and waiting to hit the edges.
We are made to think we aren’t enough—our box may be too big.
In a box too small, we drip over the edges, losing pieces of ourselves.
We are told we are too much.

But make your own box. You’re perfectly enough. You fill its every corner.
Others may have bigger boxes.
They may be shaped oddly—round, curved, sharp—
but the only box you will fit in is your own.
Jay Oct 2024
Two poets, each with a distinct soul, shape similar sentiments in different forms. He dreams in paragraphs, broad and expansive, like clouds stretching across an endless sky. His words dive deep, exploring the hidden caverns of life’s stories. She, in contrast, dreams in lines, each one crashing with the precision of a wave. Every word is chosen with care, her stanzas offering brief yet vivid glimpses of a heartbeat. Her verses flow like a gentle whisper, artfully capturing emotions on display. Their forms may be distinct, yet their themes converge: love, loss, and longing, woven into words. They share their work openly, baring their hearts in a space where emotions find resonance. Each sentence pulses with passion, laughter, and stolen glances, their connection sparked from the very beginning. Together, they transform the stillness of night into shared moments, each word a bridge into the other’s world. As they read each other’s lines, each word becomes a cherished fragment. Their hearts, poured onto the page, collide and merge within the ink of their souls. Two poets, entwined, seek to understand the intricate design of love, its gentle, complex beauty. Each line written, every paragraph crafted, reveals their shared exploration through the labyrinth of love and uncertainty. Hand in hand beneath the starlit sky, they craft a story uniquely theirs, blending two beautiful voices into one. Who could have foreseen it? A poet of paragraphs, a poet of lines, falling in love with a beauty all their own.
MetaVerse Sep 2024
Emily shmemily,
Emily Dickinson,
Recluse and poetess,
Rendered her rhyme

Idiosyncrously,
Much of her poetry
Reading most cryptically
Much of the time.
idiosyncrously – like "idiosyncratically" but doubly dactyllic
kel Sep 2024
is it wrong to want a bit of attention?
all I want
is a unique kind of connection
where I'm the only one in their eyes
eyes that are filled with dedication
towards me and me only
I wish somebody could give me a redirection
because I'm starting to feel selfish
and that's becoming a distraction
to my insecure lil brain
so I guess I'll just wait for my destruction
as I wonder what it takes
to not worry about my emotions
just to feel okay to feel selfish
with not even one restriction
Heavy Hearted Jul 2024
sometimes,
The time it takes
to curate a reality
Where
The eyes of a hostile reflection
Don't contribute to, but consume-
the moment's prison of littleness...
Is it not possible?
To escape eternity's hour's ceaselessness?
Hope,
is too short;

we perpetuate-
it takes shape.
we preform,
then placate.
I'll jus leave this here...
Sally A Bayan May 2024
☘️☘️☘️

It's wonderful to be
a freshly blooming rose,
seen by everyone's eyes
given special names,
and compared with other
grown blooms.

But...

I'd rather be free from
everyone's attention,
i prefer to grow, to bloom
without much effort,
to sprout amongst the grass,
on some random garden spots,
to persist to exist, to breathe
even among crevices.

I'd rather be a wildflower
unannounced, unmaintained
yet, beautifully unique,
and with much freedom.

Upon me, others may tread,
but, i don't die easily,
i persevere, and then
in due time, i rise again.


sally b

© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
MAY 16, 2024
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