"blackheads" poems
who is she?
i’m not saying that in a cute, quirky, self-confident way either, like
genuinely, who is she?
i don’t remember when i morphed from a
bony, pimply, bowlegged teen into a
soft, dimpled, hunchbacked “adult”.
there are still remnants of her--
my forehead still bears the marks of farms of blackheads
and my collarbones are still visible when i allow them to be--
but her
this “woman”
looking back at me is still as foreign as blood pudding.
i still feel the same, relatively, as i did when i was 5 years younger.
i still tend to wear clothes that are comfortable over flattering.
i still feel my stomach tied into itself at the thought of making a doctor’s appointment on my own.
i still feel like me.
but her?
i don’t recognize her.
Jul 1, 2020
Jul 1, 2020 at 4:54 PM UTC
It was on Hallowe'en when we said we'd meet;
as we thought it might be romantically spooky;
and I trotted gaily along the pathway
through the dimly-lit park
where the predator gay *** maniacs roamed
hoping for a bit of backdoor action
and my excited little heart went
"YI YI YI YI YI YAAAAARRRGGGHHH!"
with eager anticipation
of a hot new nymphomaniac date.
We had been a-texting with
ever-increasing frankness
for several weeks and I was beginning
to get tired of wiping the keyboard clean
after each bout of frenzied
manual self-stimulation
which she had boldly urged me to
and the built-in camera was out of order
because of the damp ***** build-up.
I found the pictures she sent me
stimulating to say the very least
especially the one with the melon
peeping out from between her legs
and I found her blood-red eyes
rather exciting really
once I got used to them;
and I was quite looking forward
to the love bites she promised me
which was why I had washed my neck
with particular attention to the blackheads.
Promptly at the stroke of midnight
my putative mistress arrived
with a ******* great clap of thunder
and to say I was surprised by her sulphurous breath
would be putting it mildly
and the fifty-five inch waist
was a bit of a disappointment,
and I honestly and truly think
she might have mentioned
the suppurating scabs
and oozing boils
or at least hinted at them.
As I fought the ravening hell-bitch off
with the hatchet I had wisely brought
in my briefcase as a safety precaution
once more I rued my innocence:
how many times have I been let down
after such high hopes from internet dating
and yet - trusting soul that I am -
I had again let my heart go astray.
Once it was all over
and I gazed down at her hideous
and mutilated corpse bleeding
and twitching on the ****** bitumen,
I lifted up her skirt
just to check the melon photo
hadn't been a fake;
and although there was no large
piece of fruit in situ at the time
I could see it had always
been a very real possibility.
Sep 25, 2015
Sep 25, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
sometimes the funk grows in my back of my head
and I start to feel like the sum of my mind
isn't good enough for my brain
and that nothing can please this monster of judgement
that sleeps behind my eyes
sometimes the funk cakes my entire perspective
and I'm so disappointed in the human being
that unfortunately constitutes the father of these words
yet I keep eating raw deli turkey right out of the bag
like some extra protein will kick my ego into overtime
sometimes I turn the mirror on myself
and I compulsively search for blackheads on my forehead
and they're always there
and its nice to pop them
because its an immediate blemish I can banish
a flaw with a fix
and it never crosses my mind
that the oils my fingers paint with
will birth the next blackhead for me to obsess over
a fix with a flaw
sometimes the funk recedes into the shallow
and I can happily hold my breath underwater
without even realizing that the pressure and heat
will scare those blackheads off my face
and not leave any fertile soil in their wake
i've been trying to assign a name to the funk
to dispel the crooked heads and furrowed brows
and all I can think to name it is human
and there are four destinations that let human thrive
hungry, scared, alone, alive
Mar 1, 2013
Mar 1, 2013 at 6:32 PM UTC
I'm not an obvious kind of pretty
I don't have natural blonde hair
Or bright blue eyes
No perky little *****
No gap between my thighs
I don't look like anyone else
I bleach my own hair
Use drug store eyeshadow
Wear dresses from the clearance rack
That show the red bumps after shaving my legs
I have lumps and bumps
Cellulite and pudge
Blackheads and bacne
A recipe for nothing special at all
Just someone average
Who has a bright twinkle
In her **** brown eyes
And curvy hips
That sway in the sun
You have to look close
To see all my beauty
I'm not a model
Or a ******* bunny
Just someone on the sidelines
Watching the models and bunnies
While they get the attention
And I get brushed by
It's not obvious that I'm beautiful
Until you look into my eyes
Until you see my semi-white smile
Then you notice the little moles
The silver scars
The way my body curves
In a voluptuous way
And you see
Just how perfect I am
Aug 22, 2018
Aug 22, 2018 at 12:23 PM UTC
he won't write you poetry like neruda or bukowski. he won't ink your name underneath his skin nor will he cut his hair shorter for your mom. he won't stay up with you to read jane austen and hemingway. sometimes all you'll hear from his end of the line is snoring and you'll know he has fallen asleep. again. he won't take you to a romantic dinner every other night. he won't surprise you with a picnic basket on a tuesday afternoon to whisk you away to a spontaneous date on the beach. his hand will sweat sometimes. he will smell like cigarettes and the inside of a Starbucks. he will chew his food loudly and eat with his leg up. he will wake you up in the middle of the night just to tell you about a dream that woke him up. he will do this because he's afraid he'll forget in the morning. he will not get along with some of your friends, your dad will ask you "are you sure?" and your little brother will hate him. he will have acne and blackheads. he won't be around everytime you need him. he won't magically appear just in time to catch after you've tripped down the stairs.
he won't be the guy you keep reading in novels about. he won't be the mysterious, poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy you keep wishing you'd finally meet.
surprisingly, despite of all of this, you will fall for him anyway. because even though you wanted a love story similar to those you found printed in pages, you will realize that they end after a dramatic moment in the airport, or a long romantic make-out session under the pouring rain, or after the one major problem is resolved.
you will realize that nothing comes after for them. what happens after the romantic colors of sunset fade and the darkness takes over?
you will realize that your own story is way better. because even though he talks too loud in libraries and hogs the blanket, he stays. he is there beside you at 2am when you suddenly wake up from a nightmare. you can feel his breath on the back of your neck and his arm around your waist. you can hear him whisper "i love you" and it will be dripping with honesty. and that is more than any fictional poetry-writing, guitar-strumming, panty-dropping British guy can ever do.
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 12:23 AM UTC
I'm not an obvious kind of pretty
I don't have natural blonde hair
Or bright blue eyes
No perky little *****
No gap between my thighs
I don't look like anyone else
I bleach my own hair
Use drug store eyeshadow
And **** shopping in Topshop
I have lumps and bumps
Cellulite and pudge
Blackheads and bacne
And prodigious pours
A recipe for nothing special at all!
Just someone average
Who has a bright twinkle
In her fog grey eyes
And curvy hips and ****
That sway in the sun
You have to look close
To see all my beauty
I'm not a runway model
Or a ******* bunny
Just someone on the sidelines
Watching the runway models and bunnies
While they get the attention
And I get brushed by
It's not obvious that I'm beautiful
Until you look into my eyes
Until you see my semi-white smile
Then you notice the little moles
The red and silver scars
The way my body curves
In a voluptuous ans peachy way
And then you see
Just how ******* perfect I am
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 1:59 AM UTC
do you feel like a boy, boy?
or just like a bad person?
you like it when your bangs
touch your greasy blackheads,
when girls squeeze your earlobes
while you kiss on the staircase,
and the way your calves
look like mayonnaise covered gerbils
every time you flex in the mirror
or cross your legs in the coffee shop.
you don't like playing foosball
and going through all the scenarios
on how people question your being.
metro?
"we don't have those in Nevada"
you label yourself as a straight white boy,
because you can't call yourself a feminist.
you want to be a feminist,
but you're a wannabe feminist
according to the ones
you let down and continue to
because you're not quite a man,
yet you aren't female.
what are you, exactly?
according to the history books
we only know what masculinity is,
femininity a vague genre tag of
every other piece of music made
when villages aren't burned
and the ****** has to wait
another day before becoming
a prize in Heaven.
do you feel like a man, boy?
or nothing at all? cause
you can't feel like a bad person
when you don't feel human.
Jun 1, 2018
Jun 1, 2018 at 12:51 PM UTC
turn on the shower
hot, hot, hot,
unbraid my hair on the scale
119.9, 2 less than friday,
too much
for my 5 foot tall body.
sit on the shower floor
breathe in only steam,
rest my chin
lipstick marks on my knees
like blood.
my roommate's dark hair
tethered in the grooves of the shower floor,
sweeps back and forth
I twirl it around my finger
force it down the drain.
stand up
too fast, too fast, too fast,
dizzy
sit back down,
try again.
orange face wash
to keep my skin bright
washes away perfectly sculpted
cheek bones and nose
lips pale pink,
I bite them.
charcoal scrub
to clean out pores
blackheads are no good
only smooth skin
will do.
purple shampoo
to keep my hair blonde
purple conditioner
blonder, softer
gentle waves.
pink razor
removes unladylike hair
soft, delicate,
for surface use only
don't cut, don't cut, don't cut.
coffee scrub
to lighten scars
soften stretch marks,
eliminating the reminders
of what my skin,
my body,
has been through.
face in the water,
wash away my tears,
naked face like a child
wet hair dripping down my back
hands and feet pruned.
turn off the shower
twist my hair in a towel
soften skin with lotion,
coconut
boyfriends favorite.
vaseline lips
soft, kissable, desirable,
float to bed
the sheets are clean,
folded in the laundry basket
on the floor.
Mar 16, 2015
Mar 16, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
The first thing I see is blue eyes
Well,
Blue
Green
Gray
Bright eyes
And long black eyelashes that didn't need mascara
Then the straight brown hair
That goes to my waist
Went to my waist
I never had to straighten it
The uniform bangs
My mum cut them for me
Just a fraction too high
Just a little too thin.
Then the light eyebrows
Slightly thick before I started waxing and plucking them
The pale, unmarked skin
Like a china doll
Still in her box
No blackheads on my nose.
My nose
Before I developed the Gallizzi nose
Or the Dunlap nose
(I can never tell between the two)
Not like a button
But I didn't want a button for a nose.
Those days back when beauty was a princess
That fell in love with a beast
Hey, just like me
Because with my now short hair
With bangs cut to the side
I see auburn, copper, and gold strands
When I step in the light
And my proud nose, I think it suits me
And those blackheads will go
And my eyebrows are fine
(But I'll still wax and pluck them)
And I don't often straighten my hair
Even though I feel like I should
And my eyes are still beautiful
And beauty is still a princess
And the princess is me
Who has fallen in love with with the beautiful beast
That is, was, and forever will be me
Apr 13, 2014
Apr 13, 2014 at 2:11 PM UTC
"Take a good look and
Tell me who it is
That I am."
I do not see
The eyes of hazel-green
I see pits
I see chasms
I see soulless windows
The hair of fiery bronze
I see rats tails
I see dishevelled wisps
I see dirt, mud and grease
The straight nose
I see the lumps
I see the blackheads that could inhale you
I see a witches crook
The mouth
I see thin worms stretched
I see steel fences, electric, unyielding and snapping shut at intruders
I see razor-like daggers
"Take a good look and
Tell me who it is
That I am."
You see me now.
You know who I am.
You know what I am.
Oct 17, 2014
Oct 17, 2014 at 8:32 PM UTC
An old friend turning toxic,
I dream of ejecting her from this blissful vessel.
The black muck when she speaks
now splattered stains on your newly ironed dress shirt.
Moss melting the creases in her teeth:
the decorated corridor for her thoughts now a putrid swamp that once made you smile.
Brittle lashes, cracking and crumbling from icky cosmetics I always despised.
A crust forming on the electric blue eyeshadow
congealing her psychotic stare that leaves me optimistic for her slumber.
But even when in seemingly peaceful sleep, she is screaming in my dreams.
Indigo veins as floss plucking at her gums, crimson dripping down her lips and off her chin.
Her freckles denting her cheeks: sickly chicken pox amidst the blackheads.
A scraggly witches broom pressed into her scalp where her hair would be. It fits her well.
Her hands hot with hatred, concealing a secret only she could know.
She is irreversible.
Her toxicity taking ahold of me: an irrepressible poison to my past, fogging my future.
But she is not what you know.
You are blinded by this auto-pilot, and she steers me into the earth.
Every day, each minute, always breathing, in my dreams, she is the me that you will never see.
And as horrid as she is, and as fearful as I am, I pray she will return to me someday.
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 11:31 AM UTC
I will talk to the boy
when my teeth are
straight when they
are whitened
when there are no
blackheads on my nose
when the warts are
frozen from my hands
when my nails are painted
and my ******
is shaven.
when my belly
is toned,
I'll sit next to him
without having
to **** in,
flashing my white white
smile, across my spotless
face,
and he'll be
astounded
by how well I can play piano
and guitar
and recite poetry
by my insightfulness.
by my vivid imagination
and reckless travel stories.
And I'll finally
deserve it.
Because to be loved,
I must be perfect.
Jan 17, 2019
Jan 17, 2019 at 10:06 PM UTC
Secrets
Having left my thought in years they
Continues to **** with my body the canvas
Staring down the saddest moments of my life
Is my imagination getting ahead of me?
When, I was a child, I free a bird from tangle cords
Does its offspring, remember me?
Has the bird taught them anything about mortal pain?
especially ,not to build their nest in low pear trees
Secrets, continue to haunt my body the canvas
Every fortnight, when my soul seem to be at rest
Interrupting my dreams, with updates off past event
Not so hidden memories anymore, optimizing my life like an app
Like tiny dots of nested blackheads
Tiptoe to the surface, from deep within
Fighting to survive, just to be seen before sudden death
I shall pluck you secrets, from your darkest place
Without leaving a trail of blood on my body of canvas
Oct 23, 2017
Oct 23, 2017 at 4:19 PM UTC
I am disgusted by illness
Of yellow **** and festered skin.
Fierce gusts may leave me motionless
But the lotions form an ocean
To fail curing oily excess.
Thus this venom sinks into skin.
The blackheads of the king cobra
Rear up in ambushes, bushes
And murky water. Cadavas'
Rot appearing on fresh faces.
For my face, I don't care
But with women it affects how I fair.
The skin is beyond my control.
Though it's only surface deep
It pains me to my soul.
Aug 24, 2019
Aug 24, 2019 at 9:13 PM UTC
do you ever have those times-
a few days, maybe ? a couple weeks ?
where the stars in your mind are unaligned
and nothing seems right?
i've got blackheads on my nose
and black spots on my brain
and black holes in my heart
and nothing is right
it should pass
it always passes in like, a week.
but until then i just feel like orion without his bow
just kind of lost
i don't know what to do because
he asked me why i was sad today and it was a bit funny
i just stared off for a minute before responding.
a shrug. i dunno.. stress? no.
stress makes me pick at my nails and have migraines
but this is just... a dread
nothing matters and it never will
and same goes for us.
i ******* hate philosophy.
Oct 12, 2016
Oct 12, 2016 at 12:14 AM UTC
One page, Two page, Three page.....
**** They're all blank. Now what, *****
Sat face to face with the faceless
It feels like a walk through the Ages
A long forgotten Gazer's contest
with an army of the rottenly oppressed
where you try 'n' find the slightest slight of progress
It's super duper glue for the clinically obtuse
shooters churning in their itty bitty booths
You learn the dance
Get to experience true trance
'til it becomes such a ***** ******* nuisance
that your left clawing at your two front
just for the chance to taste the illusion of choosing
Attack of the modern-day zombie
Hello, my name is IRobot
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 12:44 PM UTC
love is what love is; i've always spoken it into monuments. their eyes would be pearls among cheeks captured in marble, and i spent a lot of time time tracing bone to bone over the bridge of my nose thinking if my touch is the same as others'. love is what love is and i've acted as Midas. under all the suns kisses are dandelions, we run through the blossom. in the scratched blackheads there's pollen and i lie fetal as a raisin and whisper **** it out". break my shoulders, whiten your hands, **** it out.
love is what love is; I've started to wonder if raindrops **** intimately, so the pollen pours out at paint's pace. love is what love is what's real is what's slow. i can count blackheads among vacuum suction marks. water trickles down the post, jogs after each other 'til one catches the other in matrimony. i wonder if they **** if they love, and if the rising action is longer than what i have to live. but love is what is, slowly but surely. moments in time can't be lost if rain ***** forever.
Apr 10, 2019
Apr 10, 2019 at 2:54 PM UTC