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Elizabeth Foley Jan 2012
Once there was a little boy
With dreams that touched the sky
He was the darling first born son
Apple of his mother's eye
He was polite and kind to all
Regardless of their age
But never took kindly to those
Who would put his mind into a cage
So while his mother loved him so
He only made his father frown
And over the years his heart was crushed
By the man who only put him down
Approval is a funny thing;
It changes someone's life
In bulk it makes receivers shine,
In absence kills the heart with strife
So the little boy just ran away
Find love in other ways
And ending up more broken
Limping through each God-forsaken day
He wasted quite a bit of time
Feeling sorry for himself
Until finally he grew up some
And put old feelings on the shelf
"It's time to relocate," he thought
"Time to make a name for me."
It was time to take control of his life
Decide his own destiny
Then some girl came waltzing in,
Botching his newfound plan,
Eyes a portal to a lovely soul
And blemishless heart outstretched in hand.
This couldn't happen, not again
He wouldn't change his mind
This boy had places to go and be
And love was just not worth the time
So he packed up all his things again
His "life" a sentimental might say
And with out even a goodbye
Ran like hell the other way.
1038

Her little Parasol to lift
And once to let it down
Her whole Responsibility—
To imitate be Mine.

A Summer further I must wear,
Content if Nature’s Drawer
Present me from sepulchral Crease
As blemishless, as Her.
Traveler Sep 2020
You have one of the most beautiful soul I have ever come across.
Not a single blemish on your body could represent your eternal self.
With eyes that see through, I look upon the beauty of your eternal youth.
See what you may of my surface and wonder of my underneath,
I am but the spring of passions and countless quantum leaps.
Traveler Tim

Blimishless is a new word somewhere
Right?
Carsyn Smith Jun 2013
It's the best place to cry.
It's the place where it all surrounds you,
Covering you, engulfing you, drowning you.
It falls over you like every pound of weight placed on your shoulders,
It falls and runs over your barren, exposed, vulnerable body,
And when it hits the floor -- its gone, washed down the drain,
But it's replaced by another, and another, and another,
Never ceasing, never pausing, never calming.
It beats at your back, your face, you chest,
Until your skin in red, sore, raw.
It's the place where you don't feel tears,
It's impossible to tell if they're yours, or the water falling on you.
It's the best place to cry,
The shower.

It's a good place to cry,
It's a mask that protects you,
Covering you, surrounding you, isolating you,
It hides every acid drop that rips away at your eyes and cheeks,
It conceals you from others, banishes their comfort,
It makes you alone, weak, vulnerable
They can't see you, they won't know these feelings, they don't care.
They can't see through their ignorance, so I've used it to protect myself.
It's a mask that leaves everyone none the wiser,
All you have to do is wipe the stray tears away.
It's a good place to cry,
Sunglasses.

It's an unexpected place to cry.
It's a scary place, because everyone can see you.
And the scary part is, they do nothing but watch.
The ignorance of the mask is taken away, replaced with clarity.
They can see tears, but they will choose not to acknowledge them.
Light reflects from it, hiding some features, but the picture is still there,
Staring them in the face.
They can see the redness, watch the tears as they gather and charge your dry cheeks.
They watch, but pretend they didn't see anything because they have chosen
not
to
deal
with
it.
It's an unexpected place to cry,
Glasses.












I'm sorry.
I shall take my pain somewhere else,
Take my suffering to the farthest depths of my heart,
in hopes it will not destroy my soul.
I will feed your ignorance,
your picture of a blemishless world,
And pretend I'm a perfect person, in your perfect world.
I will suppress each tear, choke down each sob, and straggle each tremor,
I'm exhausted, but I must keep running
Running away from your misguided decisions, your accusations, your falsifications.
They are like hot iron, branded into my skin like livestock.
So,
I'm sorry,
I will destroy myself to spare your ignorance.
Osondu Feb 2016
Pray

That I may taste of you

Worship at your slender blemishless feet

Feast upon the divine banquet that is your core

Serenade you with praise deserving of your graceful form

That I may traverse the land that is your body

With eyes, hands, lips, tongue...

That I may make your mind my home

That I may always, and forever

Remain in your pulchritudunous presence

Alas, I can not

For you have trapped me in this live cage

Kept me in the proverbial limbo

A bare whisper away

Yet, still screams and echoes apart

The pain weighing heavily on my strained vocal cords

Slowly crushing my fragile heart

But I bear my cross with dignity, the constant torture

And I sit in silence

Watching, waiting

Hoping
For those of us in limbo...
Happy Valentine's Day.
Adam Childs Mar 2014
Please please your highness
My gracious Queen
Please seek the righteous path
For your knight's strength
Can be no greater
Than the height of your ideal
And his bonds of allegiances, no stronger
than your bonds with God
For it is only the Queen
Who drinks from the cup of justice
That softens to the will of God
Which can feed the Lions
Buried deep in her knight's heart

Cherished, are the moments
A knight shares with his horse
As I rest in the silence
Of this blemishless heart
A humble steed it be
That carries a kingdom on his back
Twisted am I, for I ask so much
As to serve a master
Is to betray a friend
For sorrow fills my heart
As your master, how can this be
When you teach me loyalty
dignity and bravery
I vow now to never leave your side
And all blessings bestowed to me pass onto you

To my gracious Queen
May I honour all of you
For only I know the gentleness
Of my vengeful great queen
As my faith rests in her
And hers in mine
Such faith has no grave
But binds us as one
For you are the rainbow after every war
Who brings new promise to my weeping heart
that tranquilizes the regrets
Of my blood soaked hands
And lifts my stained soul
From the stench found in battle

For you my Queen I owe all to you
Into the arms of the Lord I do now fall
for never will be such service forgot
But lie in the souls for evermore
I used spend time with a lady which always had a regal feel around her or at least I felt she did and I also experienced  a strange feeling of allegiance  towards her which gave me feeling that I had served her before , if you believe in past lives? .
Jake Espinoza Jul 2010
I have always lied to tell the truth.
I play games so that others may win.
Everything matters so much
     that I don't care about it.
If I think enough
     I'll forget everything.
I am the King of Shadows
     important only to the beings who exist in silence and dust.
I turn to stone if I sit still
     to find myself in a tranquil garden of such beauty
     with colors that possess a vibrancy that has never been seen.
I feel emotions through time
     those that no human can feel.
I fall through the comfortable, red-black safety
     into the clarity of the vast depths of the dark blue.
My body is made perfect as I succumb
     and my mind awakes.
I watch as the violin's music condenses into love before my eyes
     the deep, sonorous chord tears the poison from my mind.
I feel the light blue surges of life in my veins when I am alone.
I sit with mountains until we are one.
My eyes can never become unclean
     my soul is blemishless.
There is quiet wonder in Life
     the love in her eyes is so evident
     her smile so tender
     so quiet.
This shall be where I lay my head
     this is the reality I choose.
This is the English version of a poem I wrote for my French Composition class in the Winter '10 semester at Grand Valley.
monique ezeh Jun 2020
my mother drinks black coffee every day.
i’ve always thought it was strange— why not add a splash of cream to make it a bit easier on the palate? maybe a dash of sugar, too— some sweetness to ease its way down.

my mother's skin is the color of caramel, of coffee diluted with cream and sugar and a sprinkle of cinnamon. despite this, she gave birth to three children the color of dark chocolate, of the black coffee she so adores.

unlike black coffee, we are not bitter, though the world expects that of us. we are not ugly, either, though they likely expect that, too. we are, perhaps, unpalatable, in the same way that black coffee is unpalatable to those lacking the right palate.

i always wondered why my mother insisted on tasting the bitterness, relishing in the onyx liquid sliding down her throat.
i always wondered why my skin didn’t resemble hers, smooth and unblemished and light and beautiful.
i always wondered why the dark-skinned girls in the magazines always had to have tiny noses and skin as blemishless as fine china.

i wonder, now, why i am so dependent on the splash of cream and dash of cinnamon in my coffee.
i wonder why i’m so wary of the bitterness, of the darkness.

i took my coffee black today. i savored it sliding down my throat, smooth as velvet and not nearly as bitter as i’d thought.
Patrick Kennon Aug 2019
Nicotine and caffeine, burning tire, no traction, in the rain or sun the same
None to blame, blemishless, buffed into brilliant sterility with hot sauce
Arcane toss, dice tumbling, rice pummeled in stainless machines
Bleach disinfects, cleans, the picked scab blood out of sheets
Tattoos on feet, a whole bunch of shiney nothing
From deep we spasm up, cramped leg kicking for air
Only one care in the world, that next one, married to our breath, do us part on death

— The End —