"birthmarks" poems
Big ears
Small nose
Frizzy hair
Chubby thighs
Flaws,
Scars on legs
Birthmarks on arms
Small *****
Flaws,
Flaws are nothing to be ashamed of
They are our hidden roadmaps to places only we really know
Embrace every flaw that covers your body
They make you, you.
May 25, 2015
May 25, 2015 at 4:41 PM UTC
Two, of course there are two.
It seems perfectly natural now——
The one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
And balled¸ like Blake's.
Who exhibits
The birthmarks that are his trademark——
The scald scar of water,
The ****
Verdigris of the condor.
I am red meat. His beak
Claps sidewise: I am not his yet.
He tells me how badly I photograph.
He tells me how sweet
The babies look in their hospital
Icebox, a simple
Frill at the neck
Then the flutings of their Ionian
Death-gowns.
Then two little feet.
He does not smile or smoke.
The other does that
His hair long and plausive
*******
************ a glitter
He wants to be loved.
I do not stir.
The frost makes a flower,
The dew makes a star,
The dead bell,
The dead bell.
Somebody's done for.
6.2k
this one girl I used to be friends with, she was so beautiful and never ever did she see it in herself. I used to look at her though, and I used to wish I looked just like her or had a personality as kind and sweet and determined as her. I used to want to be as free of a soul as her and sometimes, even as guarded. It made me sad a lot of the time because she was so depressed and mysterious to me; her life kinda ****** back when I had first met her. I remember we dropped acid together twice and I told her that if ever there was someone I didn’t want to lose, it was her. And then the following year we had a fall out and we don’t talk anymore. I guess people change and that should be okay but sometimes I still wonder about her and what she is doing now and how she spends her friday nights.
then there was this other friend, who I may have even considered myself closer with but in a different way. We used to sneak out of my house during sleepovers when we were younger and sit on the curb and share a cigarette. we’d talk about all the people we miss and how afraid we were of the future. I always felt like I hardly knew her even though she shared most of herself with me. the first time I saw her cry was terrifying to me, but I didn’t tell her that. I remember how pretty I thought she was. physically though. and physically alone. She had a lot birthmarks that made her intriguing and skinny legs with pretty knees. however, she was mean and usually very bitter. one time she told me “I hate people until they give me a reason to like them” and hearing that disappointed me. I tried the most to be her friend again after she walked away but it was no use.
another friend I had I was friends with since I was six. I knew her from pre school and we were inseparable. I could write paragraphs and paragraphs about how amazing that girl is. I could do the same about how bad I felt for her. she was a friend who I never thought I would lose and I remember we had the type of friendship where our parents used to sign us up to do the same sports (horseback riding, gymnastics). after we stopped being friends I heard she fell off the deep end and was doing a lot of drugs. I got back in touch with her recently however she never seemed interested in hanging out and some of my texts went unanswered so I gave up. when I think about her, I still see my 12 year old self, playing mermaids in her pool as if time had stood still. if any of the people I’m writing about read this post, I hope it’s her most of all. miss you.
Apr 7, 2016
Apr 7, 2016 at 7:54 AM UTC
These berries are bruises
Fading birthmarks I have still
Fresh from that morning you opened my curtains
Rolled down your window
Promised me honey and a candy-colored life.
These berries are bruises
You made me breakfast in bed.
Too early you lifted my tent,
brought a full spread:
Fruit, toast and black coffee--
But when I tilted my lips
You drunk first of my womanly cup.
Pouring out hot, bitter slick
My lips swelled blue blister
I stiffened under your dead weight,
I killed my tongue.
I tried to keep dreaming of
Hands to knead me
And butter the softness of these
Blueberry scone hips,
But instead you picked all the berries out
Your greed a mouthful,
The growing woman inside me leavened--
Watching you stain my girlhood,
Popping one fruit bead after another
******* the seeds from my teeth.
Jan 31, 2012
Jan 31, 2012 at 2:25 AM UTC
Push back that limp piece of hair behind the thinness of your ears
and look at yourself full on, no make-up, or mask, or paint or picture
just DNA,
yours.
I see waves of songs and lyrics attached to flesh, can you hear it?
That transcendental vocal like a babies cry and a mother tender eye,
a demise too immortal for human opinion.
But I know you hear it too, the other sound of lies that are inescapable
and so pungent it turns milk sour and crushes noses
you take small bites, and pretend to dance
as you listen to that melody as if it was truth
but darling its not truth,
for the acne scars, and full lips, the birthmarks and stolen hips,
flat chest, and dent of skin, is beautiful to me cause I see what's flowing from within
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 9:06 AM UTC
I laughed in places
Where Laughter was not asked for,
In granite market towns
Beneath refugee palm trees shivering.
Running from giant hands
That were covered in car wash fluids,
The back of children's heads imprinted
On their palms.
I laughed during disciplinary procedures,
Before authority figures
With cornflakes in their red beards
And my laughter crept over the edges of their flowerbeds
And the grass laughed with me.
I laughed at funerals,
The sounds of horses beyond the churchyard
And a messenger ran down the aisle
panting and exhausted,
He had a message for my laughter
' Quick you must come at once'.
I laughed during marital feuds,
Laughter rising out of its own body
above broken guitars and dried up bonsai,
Above all the things I said
That contradict me now.
I laughed during serious films,
The tulips drooping on top of the T.V.
The sun slumped against the door,
Behind heavy curtains
I mistook for pigs on hooks.
I laughed over exercise books,
Above algebra and history
Behind impossible bra straps
That appeared out of acne and ink flicked backs.
I laughed at the swimming pool
Hiding birthmarks like stains,
Drowning above the water saying
'I am a fish I must get back in!'.
I laughed in surgeries among migraines
and told my mother that robots were taking over,
in the same rooms where they removed my brothers' verucas
And I saw the doctors small blade
escape through the window.
I laughed during friends confessions,
In between the silences of repeated songs
While pantomime dames walked past windows
make-up running in black and yellow rain.
I'm laughing while making coffee in a campervan,
I'm laughing because its a monday morning,
Because everyone else is busy,
Because we have an oil lamp from a pound-shop
Burning beneath the sound of rain on the roof,
Because the radio's silent…..
And because sausages are best done slowly.
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 11:05 AM UTC
i knew you had a hard farm, where the livestock was stoic and the hills less harmless.
you had wolves that would breathe down your neck. and weeping willows made of funerals
and *** U knew you had an old world view of birthmarks, where life is stampede and riddle
and lost art...
i knew you had guns, and an April of dead suns... a humid dementia of lecherous guile and innocence.
a distinct remain. [ a loose cherub in the Wednesday...]
a bowl of fruit and tyrants
catching spark.
i knew you meant no harm that a legion of crossed charms could reason to decimate my reckless.
you had rules that had deeds, done in the name of nameless. a thing, pillows dread.
the soul of your soul is the spot spotless; a dowry of feathers and blood
and yes.
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 11:34 AM UTC
I dare you to close your legs, button up your shirt, fasten your bra, put a locker on that zip and see if they will stay,
the parting of your legs should not be the only conversation you are meant to have,
collecting your bra straps or looking for lost earrings on the floor should not be the only time they bend over for you,
as if the only time you deserve worship is only after you have screamed home coming in their ears.
The dimples on your thighs and the fabric of your hair should not be the only time they learn to pronounce your name,
there is more to remember of you than the scars you left on their backs,
that is not the only time you know how to hold on tight,
you have held graves on your wrinkled forehead from the day blood came gushing, unarmed for from your womanhood, a tragedy from which you are yet to recover,
you have held far more important things, far more important secrets, far more important names than the birthmarks under their arms,
there is more profundity and wisdom to your being, your family name, than the disentanglement of your lower lips and the ruin of your own flesh.
There is more to you than the wetness of your womanhood and your hardened *******
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 2:50 PM UTC
fall in love with someone
who treats your scars
like birthmarks
Jan 19, 2019
Jan 19, 2019 at 8:31 PM UTC
We are not defined by skype or video calls
or text messages or distance
and I won't let those things change us
or the lack of those things.
I miss you like hell
and I love you like heaven
but that doesn't change the fact that
this gets ******* difficult
or the fact that I get mad over nothing.
I know we are different and I know
this is worth it.
I know we seem crazy, insane, even unrealistic.
But I don't care.
I love you I love you I love you.
It's worth it because I know that someday
you will find the birthmarks that cover my torso and the scars
that cover my hips
and I will find out the way your spine curves and how your
voice sounds when you get out of the shower
and the way your lips part.
These frantic wishes fill me up
and swallow me whole.
My love for you saves me and sinks me
but when I'm down at the bottom, I find you
have not left me.
Despite the number of texts we send in a day or the
number of times I hear your voice
I will love you.
I will love you more than I hate the miles.
May 26, 2013
May 26, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
You're an anomaly.
Your frizzy hair
And strange birthmarks
Give off a less than fantastic impression
To the shallow.
You are soft spoken
You are obsessed with fan fiction.
I hear that you write...
I know that you are
A home schooled super-christian.
Maybe that's part of the reason
For my lack of understanding.
You are an alien
In my socially awkward agnostic world.
May 27, 2010
May 27, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
I want to see you in the daylight
Morning blues creeps onto your birthmarks
Eyes are so very bright
Your hair
Wrists
You.
You own yourself now
This is very important
Please love yourself
Please please please
Listen to me before my voice turns into an insane wild howl
Hitting the highest notes, disappears and I gasp for breath please listen
You are your very own
This is pretty much all you have.
Your belongings consist of two ardent eyes, stretchmarks,
Arms, legs issued by a pair each.
Your mind
Whatever is your every thought
Whatever you believe is true, simply
Because you believe it.
It’s all yours, this is you.
It’s all up to you.
May 8, 2013
May 8, 2013 at 9:04 AM UTC
The moon woke me up for the third time this week. The white light always looked pleasant on our white comforter surrounded by the dark sky and empty room. As badly as I know we need curtains, I can’t stand the idea of buying new curtains for an apartment that couldn’t be more run down. I turned over and watched your chest rise and fall as your body remained in its C shape.
I know your skin. I know every inch of it, the feeling of your five o’clock shadow, hidden birthmarks with freckles due east and west, the scars, and the stories that go along with each one.
I tiptoed over to the linen closet, hitting creaking floorboards between every honking taxicab on the avenue below. When I grabbed the accordion door handle, I could hear you rustling in the low thread count sheets.
“Come back to bed.” you said while yawning away last night.
“Go back to sleep.” I let out some anxiety filled air with my words.
An ambulance and the Doppler Effect ran past our building, numbing my senses with the moment we were parallel.
“Why is every day a melodrama with you?” you sat up.
“Just please, please go back to bed” you were right, but I didn’t feel much like talking.
“I just can’t stand this much longer Natasha, I can’t stand living with someone who won’t talk to me.” Your voice faded and you stared into the moon’s beam of white light. I wanted to hate you for everything thing you were saying, for propelling me into his bed that night, for you changing and losing your luster, because we aren’t, and haven’t been what we used to be.
“Just close your eyes, and just fall back asleep, it is really just that simple” I said firmly, hoping it would put our communication to an end. I stood at the linen closet for five minutes, pretending to look for a blanket that wasn’t there. I tiptoed back to our bed. Your body was as flat as a plank with your chest to the ceiling and your hands by your sides. Your eyes were open, and your skin hadn’t changed but I couldn’t match your eyes to my memory.
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 9:26 PM UTC
You’re your own idea
written in blood and electricity.
You’re Pulcinella. You’re judy.
You’re someone else’s description
of light
imagined alive.
You’re temporary.
You’re the dream in a Jivaro head.
There’s the ceiling of a skull
just above your clouds
and even further out
there's another.
You’re pock-marked, wood-wormed
with thoughts,
words,
that you’ve been taught
on you, like tattoos
and shared birthmarks.
You’re picture-framed
in my eye sockets
flipped and made
understandable
and only some of you
oozes
through
like the sun
below the surface of the sea.
You’re me
and i’m you
swirling in each other’s boundaries
like the Tao and oily water
and the point between the colours in rainbows.
You’re infinite to mayflies.
You’re an explosion’s leftovers.
You died last time I saw you
and reformed in the doorframe
when I came around again.
You’re the world’s re-used love letter
from ****** to organised organism
incubated in original sin
the kiln
making Russian dolls from living things.
You’re the seed of a ghost.
You only existed since this morning
and yesterday’s you woke up
and is now out haunting.
You’re both here, and there, and here
a string vibrating
a seismograph
a tree ring
Earth’s music
playing
and playing
and playing.
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 1:40 PM UTC
Honey Pickle.
I can't let you go alone, into the night.
Leaving me here bathing in fright.
I didn't mean to not listen with more care
Oh Honey Pickle I will not even let dare
Thinking of my life continuing with you not there.
Dearest wait and please please slow down.
Speak once more and I beg you to turn around.
She stopped. And then she slowly fell to the ground.
My darling Honey Pickle wept so loud into the night
Minutes of anguish and sobbing were sounding her fright.
I would stay with you if paying more attention you might.
I dared not turn away and let her go
I put other things first and she seemed to know
My attendance to her was something I did not show.
Her sobs they fell from her mouth to the earth
Sad sounds revealed betrayal from me was what she heard
I flew down the stairs and out the door like a bird.
I ran to the spot where she crying laid low
I then realized complete attention to Honey Pickle I should show.
That was the only way a life long love could ever grow.
I stared at Honey Pickle to the skin of her neck above her back
I lovingly saw the birthmarks that reminded me of my lack
Of attention to the details of of speech that I had seen as black.
When you love someone like my Honey Pickle focus on words
Make sure you hear properly and respond right to what you heard.
Listen. Listen and Listen, and remember them even if slurred.
If you have your own Honey Pickle nothing else matters.
If you want your future secure and you heart not to be shattered.
Keep your lover's heart intact, don't leave memory in tatters.
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 11:18 PM UTC
I want to be inside every girl you ****** before me,
show you the birthmarks you never noticed
shaped like canoes and rocketships.
I will get her chest to rise, then fall,
steal the very source of her breath and curl my fingers
around it –
into dough, how you never could knead.
I have my hand on her throat
because you hated when she would talk.
We could work together, tie her hair into a knot.
I just want to be inside the girls who have intestines
like cotton candy and ******* like watermelon
explain why you should
have loved her as a woman sometimes.
You say you prefer my skin, and the way I whimper
but maybe you just did not
**** her hard enough.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 5:36 PM UTC
i found a birthmark shaped like Alaska
on the inside of your kneecap,
and i only saw it the day you
let me cross the border;
it was sensitive to my touch,
the moon-like ripples leading
to the needles on the pine tree
in your back yard.
sometimes i can read behind the
lines of DNA makeup,
like the lonely biologist you seem to be,
but your lingo is foreign to me,
tattered words and language deficiencies,
i can hardly follow along the braille
carved onto your outer layer,
the marble you worked so hard to
weather on your own time.
yet, somehow its turned to rubble again.
sometimes i hold an out of order sign
against my breastbone so i can set eyes
straight and wish anyone would light me on
fire,
(but not literally, i'm absolutely against abuse)
i want the sticks but not the stones,
since wood won't leave my body bruised.
use my transitions for kindle,
and my organs for the flames.
i want to be colored red,
like ambulance lights, stop signs,
painted like a signature to warn others
how my frequencies can only be heard
by animals.
maybe some other life forms,
or god,
but i have never hoped more that
you would pick up on my signals,
my freckles scream out samples
of how this could be
or what we could have known.
May 25, 2011
May 25, 2011 at 12:00 PM UTC
The human body is comprised of several ‘substances’
including..
Mercury,
hydrogen hydroxide,
fountain pens,
the lost dates of calenders,
various small woodland animals,
including…
Voles,
rabbits & field mice.
Other such things as…
Misplaced birthmarks(of the brain)
feelings of remorse and regret,
the stolen trinkets of past lovers,
and of course,
white blood cells,
pesticides,
and the second hand
from a 1956 ’hamilton railroad’ pocket watch.
Aug 7, 2011
Aug 7, 2011 at 8:38 AM UTC
icicles through my arteries
and a frown resting upon your face
lines losing control
nothing left to be misplaced
i want You, i want You
and lead bits in a plastic bubble
graphite poisoning: your love's humor
wriggling and embracing trouble
she's gone, drunk on confections
and darkness consuming
chocolate wrinkles brushing birthmarks
a skinny boy fuming
be Mine, only Mine now
perch on caulked sandstone blocks
stitched sleeves will scrape bricks
and bricks pulling locks
let's don masks and hastily pretend
the atmosphere is painted with limit
serifs blurring my vision
drive your spaceship into it.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 11:20 PM UTC
I won't write of the "L" word or that I'm feeling sad
This poem is not about the horrible day I had.
I won't try to inspire you with philosophical prose
Or tell you about colors of flowers like a rose.
I want to confuse you
Amuse you
Abuse your mind
your thoughts maligned.
With poetry you undress yourself layer by thin layer
Each word, verse, poem or page reveals who you are,
where you've been, how you've been treated, your reasons for despair.
Birthmarks, bad hair, too fat, too thin
you hide your shy smile, or a big toothy grin.
Eye color, the size of your nose too big for your face
imagined only by you but these thoughts have no base.
To others you are beautiful, funny, amazing,
confident, conceited, smart, loyal, sincere.
Against your own knowledge or impression
all these quirks to you others endear.
It doesn't matter what part of the world you are from on this Earth
Even from thousands of miles away through poetry we can evaluate your great worth.
Thank you for sharing yourselves with us
For enlightening our lives
Thank you for giving us your perspective
and with each word making us realize
For you life is ... something different ... than it is for me.
© 2012
Jul 5, 2012
Jul 5, 2012 at 8:29 PM UTC
you are a painter
and i am a
blank canvas.
paint a vivid
picture for me,
for us.
make sure to fill
my eyes with
the wonder and the
curiosity and the
infatuation that will
be present when
i see you for the
first time.
leave my hair
messy because you
are going to tell me
that you like it
that way someday.
include all of the scars
and the birthmarks and
the little wrinkles on
my skin that i hate,
because you will tell me
that you love every
little thing about me
down to the smallest
freckle on my cheek.
pay attention to all
of the little details.
you are a painter
and i am a
blank canvas
waiting to be turned
into something
beautiful.
Jan 21, 2013
Jan 21, 2013 at 12:25 AM UTC
I want to feel known. I want to bring someone home and tell them about how my brother and I used to live in elaborate mansions in the trees.
I want to drive them around my home town and tell them of all the places I got heartbroken and all the places I ran to hide and all the places I smiled at the sun believing I could never go blind.
I want to tell them of all the friends I've had and how I miss some and am scared of others, to tell them of how theyve grown while helping me grow too.
I want to show them the home I grew up in and how I thought it was the best place in the world, surviving tornados, fires, and sadness but we lost it to the lawless.
I want to show them my birthmarks and all the constellations and myths my grandmother wrote about the stars on my skin.
I want someone to know every curve of the letters in my name. To be able to hear me in my quiet, see me in my dark, hold me in my cold, and love me in my despair.
Jan 11, 2022
Jan 11, 2022 at 3:09 PM UTC
A broken screen door creaks my name
An invitation my ***** ears know
The voices behind it all the same
The flickering lamp strives to stay
In this dusty, sleepy home
A broken screen door creaks my name
A memory in each carefree stain
At the rotting table where I eat
The voices behind it all the same
In the dead grass I play my games
Dirt clings like birthmarks to my feet
A broken screen door creaks my name
At night, on my shared bed I lay
Staring at the chipping door
The voices behind it all the same
Bug infested and near the shore
I don't know how to wish for more
A broken screen door creaks my name
The voices behind it all the same
Mar 8, 2016
Mar 8, 2016 at 6:27 PM UTC
your fingertips glide across my skin;
tracing the curve of my back and
all the faults that reside thereof.
scars,
dimples,
birthmarks,
s t r e t c h marks.
these little imperfections
appear to be not just here,
but everywhere
on my godforsaken body.
they are all so uniquely diverse,
yet i find myself loathing
each and every one of them.
your touch sends
a sudden shiver racing down my spine,
as if a wire were tied around it,
sending electric waves throughout my body.
i can feel the goosebumps forming,
and the familiar chill that comes with them.
they spread [across my body] like wildfire,
making them a contradiction.
my pulse quickens,
and i find myself feeling restless.
as the night goes on,
i cannot help but give in
to the terribly obscene thoughts
that i have for you.
Sep 5, 2013
Sep 5, 2013 at 12:32 PM UTC
I will search for you in my little toy boxes
filled with old ancestors and sayings slipped from tongues, revealing stories of my birthmarks
I will search for you in the light
I will search for you in the dark
I will gentley remove my skin
in my mind you are so royal
so monarch
I will drink my water
all alone
I will light my candles
in the late night and imagine what would be the smell of your cologne
I will stare into the world at night until Im
****** and moonstoned
I will linger wax inbetween thigh bones
flirt tales with wishbones
until all the stars beg me to stop
uttering moans
I am beseeched in interlocking strangle
of submission to my loneliness
and waiting with a white transparent dress
on the bridge of london
hoping to see the dark eyes
that put light in the souls of the peasent in my
disabled heart, mused in desguise
should I sit here and speak the anecdotes
and the lies
of the littler girl inside of me
who everytime thinks of your dies
slower and slower
each time
the goodbyes
and the standbys
I reply
I have ran out of supplies
to fix my sunrise
and now I sit here in the absence of bright skies
life I see takes hold of the wise
but you see my lover
for you I shall be patient
I shall be humble
and I shall be kind.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 10:40 PM UTC