#blemishes - Hello Poetry

I am in ending No further believed As in turning Left unseen Shine as the center Stilled in the mire Conquered mystique Forgotten eyes shadowing

0

Jan 31

Jan 31, 2026 at 7:01 PM UTC

kevin-8

Disgruntled Parts

I am in ending No further believed As in turning Left unseen Shine as the center Stilled in the mire Conquered mystique Forgotten eyes shadowing

8

Mapped out scars on weathered skin, like journaled stories etched upon the surface. Some stay hidden, top secret, for your eyes only locked up deep within. Each blemish a memorial to battles fought, lost and won, as history was written in flesh, blood, and bone. ©️Lizzie Bevis

0

May 20, 2025

May 20, 2025 at 10:20 PM UTC

Lizbev37

Scars and Blemishes

Mapped out scars on weathered skin, like journaled stories etched upon the surface. Some stay hidden, top secret, for your eyes only locked up deep within. Each blemish a memorial to battles fought, lost and won, as history was written in flesh, blood, and bone. ©️Lizzie Bevis

14

Low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. No definite edge —strange for a world obsessed with curves and edges. We are but clustered atoms, modest specks of particles; we are free-thinking atoms, and well-aware that we are. My world began, and like everybody else, I was in one piece; a piece made up of clustered atoms —free-thinking. My craving sight, longing to be fed; longing to digest an uncharted world in my mind, not mostly empty. The swaying room On the wall, sunflowers are drawn flailing under the withering sun, waltzing with the strolling breeze, beautiful, I thought perfect, I thought. It was a time when I cannot see atoms for what they are; not mostly empty; not mosiaced, but in one piece. That day we weren’t just atoms; we were sent off to the swaying room; we were wailing seals when our folks left us at the care of our teachers. A kid who sat across the table pointed his finger at my face and opened his mouth and out came the three words, ‘You are ugly.’ ‘No, I’m not.’ Yes you are and so is everyone in your family. I smiled and the more he teased me. Ugly! Ugly! Ugly! Lost my innocence when I was five; no longer a ****** from the cruelty of this world of clustered atoms. Exit the womb at your peril, lest, endowed with consciousness; should have been told; should have erred on the side of innocence tucked under a placenta. So began a world like everybody else; low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. A world obsessed with curves and edges; with shapes and sizes; with colors and advantages. Dragons are real; this much I know. My mom used to tell me to ignore them. As if on cue, as soon as the school bells rang their tongues loll out of their mouths to utter the word ‘ugly.’ The bells a stimuli for their rabid mind. Even at night they were cicadas in my mind’s lawn, chirping cutting words, a cause of insomnia. We were walls, vandalized by juvenile, nay primitive free-thinking. Our pain covered in graffiti. For so long we were made to believe, the defects, the blemishes, the scars, made us ugly, all along it was their eyes. Words have stimulated casualties those whose souls leaped out to limbo; souls who bought the idea that suicide will make the torment cease; maybe it did; maybe not, what of the bereaved? Words can be the longest noose. For fear of seeing something unmeant we set visitation hours when we come to check ourselves in the mirror. We wander; we wonder, as we navigate our way out of this labyrinth; out of this house of distorted reflections, we have the mistaken impression that our images are warped, in truth we are warped by the impressions of us. Sometimes we have to squint, to view ourselves from a vantage point where we can be beautiful; where we don’t feel awful; where we don’t have to take pills; where we don’t have to dawdle eating waffles in the morning to avoid the hurt; to avoid the prescription bottles. People often find ways to medicate the hurt, but not the hurtful. Low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. No definite edge how can these atoms relate words of hate? A face cannot wear beauty, only those who make this world a beautiful place for everyone deserves to be called beautiful. Perhaps atoms feel better seeing other atoms collapse.

0

Sep 13, 2024

Sep 13, 2024 at 9:56 PM UTC

Erwinism

Scars of Beauty (Atoms)

Low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. No definite edge —strange for a world obsessed with curves and edges. We are but clustered atoms, modest specks of particles; we are free-thinking atoms, and well-aware that we are. My world began, and like everybody else, I was in one piece; a piece made up of clustered atoms —free-thinking. My craving sight, longing to be fed; longing to digest an uncharted world in my mind, not mostly empty. The swaying room On the wall, sunflowers are drawn flailing under the withering sun, waltzing with the strolling breeze, beautiful, I thought perfect, I thought. It was a time when I cannot see atoms for what they are; not mostly empty; not mosiaced, but in one piece. That day we weren’t just atoms; we were sent off to the swaying room; we were wailing seals when our folks left us at the care of our teachers. A kid who sat across the table pointed his finger at my face and opened his mouth and out came the three words, ‘You are ugly.’ ‘No, I’m not.’ Yes you are and so is everyone in your family. I smiled and the more he teased me. Ugly! Ugly! Ugly! Lost my innocence when I was five; no longer a ****** from the cruelty of this world of clustered atoms. Exit the womb at your peril, lest, endowed with consciousness; should have been told; should have erred on the side of innocence tucked under a placenta. So began a world like everybody else; low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. A world obsessed with curves and edges; with shapes and sizes; with colors and advantages. Dragons are real; this much I know. My mom used to tell me to ignore them. As if on cue, as soon as the school bells rang their tongues loll out of their mouths to utter the word ‘ugly.’ The bells a stimuli for their rabid mind. Even at night they were cicadas in my mind’s lawn, chirping cutting words, a cause of insomnia. We were walls, vandalized by juvenile, nay primitive free-thinking. Our pain covered in graffiti. For so long we were made to believe, the defects, the blemishes, the scars, made us ugly, all along it was their eyes. Words have stimulated casualties those whose souls leaped out to limbo; souls who bought the idea that suicide will make the torment cease; maybe it did; maybe not, what of the bereaved? Words can be the longest noose. For fear of seeing something unmeant we set visitation hours when we come to check ourselves in the mirror. We wander; we wonder, as we navigate our way out of this labyrinth; out of this house of distorted reflections, we have the mistaken impression that our images are warped, in truth we are warped by the impressions of us. Sometimes we have to squint, to view ourselves from a vantage point where we can be beautiful; where we don’t feel awful; where we don’t have to take pills; where we don’t have to dawdle eating waffles in the morning to avoid the hurt; to avoid the prescription bottles. People often find ways to medicate the hurt, but not the hurtful. Low density, not mostly empty but empty nonetheless. No definite edge how can these atoms relate words of hate? A face cannot wear beauty, only those who make this world a beautiful place for everyone deserves to be called beautiful. Perhaps atoms feel better seeing other atoms collapse.

110

In cover of night I hide my flaws Sealed them in the blackened air Darkness cloaks my ugly parts Like they were never there

0

Mar 13, 2024

Mar 13, 2024 at 5:46 AM UTC

AmandaKayBurke

In The Cover Of Night

In cover of night I hide my flaws Sealed them in the blackened air Darkness cloaks my ugly parts Like they were never there

4

~ *O Painter with thy own eye would thee paint me in mine own natural hue prithee paint me as i am, imperfections and blemishes true Load thy brush with colors sundry to maketh yond first pure sweep across the ****** frieze, fill'd with pangs of hunger. paint me as i standeth bethought, in deep With mine own love and mine own desire, blurring the edges unclean with mine own regrets and mine own mental gyre, in mine own natural age, of deep forest green O Painter Paint me sinister turquoise, in lavender and maroon, combine the amethyst and amber blend the iceberg and the indigo moon. Paint me as i standeth, prithee see with thy eye a mistress in yond lady plight Prithee paint me all i am i cullionly a mistress in all yond lady might Paint me in the optimistic silv'r of dawn, but don’t miss the purple to shade the bruise of the bygone. paint me in the sky blue journal O Painter Paint me as a unique template smudge black white and grizzled merging all the colors of thy palette. col'r me a rainbow in a rainy drizzle Paint me tall so yond i standeth loftier than any mountain Paint me as a dram bird, delicate with soft feathers silken Paint me harmony, as a violin so yond i can sing thy solitary tune paint me as thy poetry with song and melody wrapp'd in a cocoon O Painter paint me as a dream yond rises in did saturate colors with a steady upbeat flight awry tint, a fluttering of a quite quaint butterfly Portray me with endurance imbue so bold and bright doth not hesitate to depict mine own mind in profound fuchsia and white. Useth the colors yond thee would borrow Thy palette not yet exsufflicate Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow in search of a shade so ****** Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet at which hour thee paint mine own love add a true broken blue shade of the cloud and the rain above; Study mine own dry sorrow in mine own soul useth any shade thee plaited soften the edges of control in a tinge of xanthene. O Painter Prithee paint me Mine own passion and mine own spirit shall has't a crimson r'd hint mine own remorse and mine own regret shall reflect an ink stain print Paint me in mine own eye so true O Painter but add a dash of courage too* ~

0

Dec 17, 2017

Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC

Cne

O Painter

~ *O Painter with thy own eye would thee paint me in mine own natural hue prithee paint me as i am, imperfections and blemishes true Load thy brush with colors sundry to maketh yond first pure sweep across the ****** frieze, fill'd with pangs of hunger. paint me as i standeth bethought, in deep With mine own love and mine own desire, blurring the edges unclean with mine own regrets and mine own mental gyre, in mine own natural age, of deep forest green O Painter Paint me sinister turquoise, in lavender and maroon, combine the amethyst and amber blend the iceberg and the indigo moon. Paint me as i standeth, prithee see with thy eye a mistress in yond lady plight Prithee paint me all i am i cullionly a mistress in all yond lady might Paint me in the optimistic silv'r of dawn, but don’t miss the purple to shade the bruise of the bygone. paint me in the sky blue journal O Painter Paint me as a unique template smudge black white and grizzled merging all the colors of thy palette. col'r me a rainbow in a rainy drizzle Paint me tall so yond i standeth loftier than any mountain Paint me as a dram bird, delicate with soft feathers silken Paint me harmony, as a violin so yond i can sing thy solitary tune paint me as thy poetry with song and melody wrapp'd in a cocoon O Painter paint me as a dream yond rises in did saturate colors with a steady upbeat flight awry tint, a fluttering of a quite quaint butterfly Portray me with endurance imbue so bold and bright doth not hesitate to depict mine own mind in profound fuchsia and white. Useth the colors yond thee would borrow Thy palette not yet exsufflicate Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow in search of a shade so ****** Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet at which hour thee paint mine own love add a true broken blue shade of the cloud and the rain above; Study mine own dry sorrow in mine own soul useth any shade thee plaited soften the edges of control in a tinge of xanthene. O Painter Prithee paint me Mine own passion and mine own spirit shall has't a crimson r'd hint mine own remorse and mine own regret shall reflect an ink stain print Paint me in mine own eye so true O Painter but add a dash of courage too* ~

88

Differences Are but blemishes on the surface Of safety, comfort, love and strength But blemishes hurt like hell.

0

Apr 26, 2017

Apr 26, 2017 at 7:07 PM UTC