"beiges" poems
New
Like the dawn
The glorious sunrise
Pinkish hues awash with silent beiges
And the sun
Is a fiery orb
Coloring life into every living thing
I feel the new
With my breath
In and out
And I think of the ocean
The powerful ocean
I can feel it within my heart,
The waves rumbling through my veins
I can see the new
In not so distant visions
Of a future full of growth
I’ve healed so much
And yet there’s more
More of the new
I open my doors
Let it all in
All the gloriously soothing beauty
Of life’s simplest pleasures
Healing me
There’s been a crack made in my lifelong illusions
I’m beginning to feel clarity, and not confusion
Saying yes yes yes
To more beauty.
Dec 5, 2019
Dec 5, 2019 at 8:54 PM UTC
because instead of her lips, her words will send you to dream land
the infliction of her voice will cause your heart to ramble
her tone will send chills down the middle of your magenta scars
~
Fall for a poet because //
Her word choice will make you feel as if you are art
As if you have been sewn
As if your skin tone was created by the experiment of combining multiple browns and beiges
That , that scar on your forehead is simply a watermark scribbled by the great architect
~
Fall for a poet because//
when she does touch you , you will be swallowed by her embrace and washed away to a forever .
Oct 26, 2015
Oct 26, 2015 at 7:38 PM UTC
What else can I cover my mouth with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go
Its' gradients are as spread and varying as strands on a feather
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look
After all, it's my story that always wins
It was never Red Riding Hood
But the enigma beneath the cloak
I am one of those girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Veiled in nudes, beiges, and understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes snag on
There's no snare of life about me except the berry on my fingers and toes
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through
I hide my hands , tuck the berry away
This is not what I want you to see
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 9:24 PM UTC
the teacher said
"tell us about yourself."
and i searched deep down
saw paris, france
venice, italy and my father when he was young
and great adventures to be told
saw words written on hotel notepads
proclaiming love of lover's past
nothing but a chord or two
to tell the complexity of what i knew
i searched deep down and saw
my soul so perfectly painted
in slashing reds and soft beiges
but
nothing made sense to anyone but me
so i gulped
and said my name.
Dec 10, 2012
Dec 10, 2012 at 9:01 PM UTC
What else can I cover my lips with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go,
It's' gradients as spread and fine as strands on a feather.
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look.
After all, it's mystery that always wins.
It was never Red Riding Hood
But always the darkness beneath the cloak.
I am one of THOSE girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Wrapped in nudes, beiges, and an ocean of understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes hinge on
There's no snare of life about me
Except the berry on my fingers and toes.
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through.
I hide my hands, tuck the berry away
This is not the me I want you to see.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 8:34 AM UTC
I used to look at the world and wonder how people managed to not forgive. How they could bear the burden of questioning and guilt and grudge and "maybe it wasn't them, it was me". How could they cling so desperately to that anger, it becomes part of them. It dominates most parts. It takes over.
I used to watch all the fights and yells and screams that were so spiteful they sounded like an "I hate you" but really, they were just a "please don't leave me". I used to observe how hands flew in the air, wanting to pull away but also needing to hold onto something. How lips turned into a kiss goodbye that looked like a **** you" from afar. How features twisted and turned and gave in to the rage or maybe it was the loss. I don't really know.
All I know is that I find myself fighting with bitterness that isn't my own, it's theirs. I find myself yelling out words that mean nothing to me, that break my own heart on their way out, that I could have sworn I once spoke to myself in the mirror. I find myself clawing out my eyes that had seen too much and throwing them at their feet because they don't feel like they're mine anymore.
I wasn't always this angry. I swear I had a heart once. And there's still something there in my chest where it should have been. But it's a bit harsher, a bit more taunted, colored in black and navy and dark red instead of rainbows and whites and light beiges. I think it might be my soul but that too, looks like the blanket we covered my father's body with. Torn. Filthy. Irrevocably stained. And yeah, maybe it wasn't my soul after all.
It's the thing that reminds me to feel that pain everyday like my own dosage of medicine because if I don't feel the pain then I feel nothing at all and that's not good. That's not normal. But I can't be normal anymore and they don't understand that maybe I had never been and maybe the thing that's cut me open had done a **** job at stitching me back together. And maybe all the wounds are contaminated and the disease is slowly spreading through me and there's no way to stop it. Maybe that's why I get it now.
I get how you don't forgive because you can't. Because you're still having trouble forgiving your own self let alone anyone else. How you yell and kick and push people away because leaving has become another loose thread of your soul that's breaking away. Breaking apart. How you judge because you've always been your worst critic and something is always wrong and if it isn't with someone else then it's with you and you just can't afford having another thing being wrong with you. So maybe that burden of grudge isn't as heavy as your heart. Maybe that tear of goodbye is better done by your own shaky hands than theirs. Maybe you were never meant to forgive, only fault. Maybe you should have stopped wondering about the world because now you can't even solve the mystery of your being. You can't make sense of your own self, how did you expect to make sense of the world?
Jan 4, 2018
Jan 4, 2018 at 10:52 AM UTC