"brownish" poems
Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
Brown maple sugar,
Cinnamon toast complexion.
Hershey chocolate chip.
Carmel Hazel brown eyes,
Red sugarcane lips.
Your curvy curvaceous thighs.
With enough melanin color blended so perfectly together, bronzing the brownish shade of your muscles.
Natural ethnic hair.
Thick, coarse or silky.
It is perfectly acceptable by me.
***** so big it needs to have its own legs to stand on.
Your blackness is ****
And it **** sure is beatiful.
Jan 12, 2016
Jan 12, 2016 at 10:22 PM UTC
once worn with pride
eat the wearer
up inside
they have wrinkles
lines of care
but a person isn't
what they wear
wether pink
or brownish lace
wether russet...
freckled face
wether taupe or
still ecru
wether me
or wether you
we all wear colors
on our bones
it matters not
their depth of tone!
let's take the rags
and by God's grace
make a quilt
of Jesus' FACE!
instead of hate
and wishing harm
this manifold quilt
will keep us warm!
wether you're
old aged or a youth
you're part of the quilt
and that's the TRUTH.
SoulSurvivor
(C) 1/8/2016
Jan 8, 2016
Jan 8, 2016 at 3:49 PM UTC
Your truck knows it all
It contains our whole relationship
It knows the beginning, middle and end
I loved seeing those lights
Knowing you were driving to come pick me up
It made me really happy
And sometimes
Even a little nervous
But in a good way
In the summertime
We had the windows rolled down because it was hot
In the winter it was cold
But we'd find a place to park and make it July warm
I almost lost my innocence in that passenger seat
We did so much in that truck
We talked
Laughed
Shared
Kissed
Argued
Cried
Stressed
Freaked out
Held each other
Loved
That truck knows it all
Those camouflage seat covers still hold our passionate sweat
The drooping brownish red ceiling absorbed all our words, feelings and keeps them there
Even today
The plastic in front of the gas gauge doesn't feel as whole without one of my pictures covering it
The center console probably still holds one of my notes
Saying how much I love about you
Who knows, the glovebox still may hold my garter
The lace with a tear on it from prom
When the truck heard you say you didn't care anymore
That truck holds everything
All the feelings and emotions
Maybe not so close to the surface anymore
But it will never forget the stuff you've let yourself unremember
That maroon Chevy still loves me
Even if you don't.
Oct 21, 2013
Oct 21, 2013 at 1:02 AM UTC
the darkest of my fantasies whisper
Your body is a scuba suit
insist i breath with your ******* through your mouth
dive deep into claustrophobic waters, sink heavy to the rock bottom
where we petrify by gorgans gaze
i know we'll turn to stone because, of course, the gorgans can't resist gazing at You
nobody can resist gazing at You, land or sea.
Our permanent legacy, lost under layers of life
barnacles clinging, moss burying Our chimera god/snake skin
i am without Your oxygen
when breathing would terrorize the wind
where words belong
still, my forked tongue writes
i'm a theif to say i only want You to be happy
when i had You, it was still selfish
the revolving doors of pain and perseverance
more time invested in us
then money invested in the Pills that kept me from killing You
out of habit
You begged me to beat You
it's been seven hands dealt
rubbing my 5 o'clock sandpaper chin
on the tarot card of death
my tolerance for vacancy
a brownish red stain
i've only the thin line of medication between necrophilia and sociopathy
i want to lay with You at the bottom of the sea
**the Pills... where are...
please no, God.
The Voice, run!
get out!**
*I would gladly go to prison
to **** your lifeless body.
I would gladly **** Myself in the afterglow
of your affection.
there is only one true Sin, Objectification.
I indulge relapse
in every memory, find
your shed snake skin
pull it on, like your *******
how disturbed I've become
with you gone*
how selfish of you
of course "I" blames You
when the Pills dull
i indulge by studying Your location
i know where You escape too
i want to go there
does that scare You?
i want to bump into You
apoligise for what i want
"want" as a word
is like plexi-glass, or kevlar
standing between Us
keeping the bullet safe.
i want a hard impact
in a school hallway
where we drop all our
Books and look up and You
see my ghost, that would be enough for Me
i want the impact to hurt.
i want the tumbling of all our Book's
i want the messy hair and ripped knees,
then Our
eyes to meet
and linger
I want to watch the fear fill you.
i want to sit there,
watching.
petrify from parcel tongues
as i gaze at Your gorgon body
shedding skin
if i shed my snakeskin,
maybe i'll see You
i can't leave this Poem
i can't leave this Poem yet
i won't leave this Poem
please kick me out
Poem
Poem
end Me
..
end
.
I
..
Jul 17, 2018
Jul 17, 2018 at 8:17 AM UTC
Once I was a sad clown
I smiled sometimes
but you couldn’t see it
behind the painted frown
I could pluck small
colorful *****
from my pocket
and spin them in the air
Blue, red, yellow, green
*Lies
Mistrust
Envy
Deceit*
They would twirl faster
Faster…
until they merged
into an ugly brownish red stain
Then stop!
To fall, into a
puddle at my feet
Another time I was a ballerina
A little girls delight
Another time, a tin soldier
A little boys dream
But I can only be those things
While I sit, with my eyes closed
and my conscious dozes
and I can no longer hear
the screams
When my eyes are open
I am once again
just a Puppet
all arms and legs
and bobbing head
that dip and sway
and dance
to anothers tune
Even that
I could live with
if my demise
had not come so soon
In one moment of lucidity
borne of dreams
I could not escape
I ignored the Puppeteers growl
as I twisted and twirled
with my own moves
but then I slipped
Alas
my fatal mistake
You see,
I was not strong enough
To move my own arms and legs
with my worthless
puppet brain
To even think I could move
without anothers command
should have shown
how much my dreams
had made me
Insane
I tripped up so badly
there was no hope
of untangling
my Puppet strings
I was bound so tight
unable to move
I lamented what
my actions had cost me
and I knew the pain
it would bring
There was no other choice
but to cut me loose
and my master
did not even shed
a single tear
I’m still a puppet
just an unmoving one
sitting in the corner
no longer with strings
And no use to another
Puppeteer
Nov 30, 2010
Oct 31, 2013
Oct 31, 2013 at 5:30 AM UTC
I
__
i am so much smaller than you
and i can ever
believe...
and you are so much smaller
than you and
i know.
i sit within the winds,
those summer breezes,
some gusty gales, perhaps,
feeling
'the tug
and toss
of its fabulous force
rippling
churning
combing the thinning grey hair on my tired head,
my clothing,
so indistinct,
flapping,
furling,
floating, --filled with this seen-un-seen presence,
and i know
a am so small,
and my life so
ludicrous,
like the air
that comes
and goes
out of its own control,
but,
i am too small,
and unable
to stop this, its invisible assault.
II
__
when i am a-float upon
the great lakes, the oceans
the
rolling
rivers
i live
like a tiny slab of flotsam or
driftwood
sailing
slowly,
circularly,
(oh-so!) quietly
running,
reeling the peeling painted oars of my boat
against
the grainy flashing surface of the waters
rumbling,
rolling
away
this insatiable yearning
to go wherever it takes me to go, but
i know
i am very small,
and cannot control the eddy's creeping currents-
constant-currents
thus
submitting
my wayfaring self
to the
unfathomable.
III
__
these trees towering
above me
around me,
the sapling,
the blanketing
(in my lifetime)
blooming branches
creating
an emotional, outer, physical, inner, spiritual
dwindling
like the leaves left shivering beneath the cold winter's frost,
once casually
falling,
dropping,
drying up around my soul
slipping
into silent winter slumber,
to awaken
again...
--and then!
(to the dismay of my self-enlightened discovery)
i see
how small
i am
only to return again
from that brownish-moist
soil-bed
like a seed
beneath
the ground
never sprouting,
only fogetting,
the once and always forvever
and ever
the natural
insignificance
of being.
Jul 10, 2010
Jul 10, 2010 at 3:46 PM UTC
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.
Amber beads unearthed from clay,
Fashioned by my artist love,
Glowing yellow, filled with day,
Captures sunbeams from above.
I still love them.
Some say gods have made these,
To ensnare the light of Sun,
But we women saved these,
In memory & hope of sons,
We keep them.
Fat & smooth as butter,
We turned them in our hands.
The bone beads scraped with madder,
The amber just with sand.
Those of shadowy carnelian
Embedded like a shield,
We treasure as we fear them,
Like wounds on battlefields.
The others soaked with brownish earth,
Sere and yellow,
Rough and round, [bright pebbles in a mound]
Pitted and mellow,
Winding our necks round,
We wore them.
So, when we are dead, take not from us,
These rounded, golden suns,
But bury them with us, with sword and severed buss,
To revere the slaughtered ones,
Who never returned to us.
Revised November 15, 2016
Sep 5, 2017
Sep 5, 2017 at 8:55 AM UTC
⠀
⠀ i thought blue eyes
were the most beautiful.
then i saw your brown.
and let me gladly say
your eyes are like oceans
and i want to drown
-BZQ
May 18, 2014
May 18, 2014 at 1:57 PM UTC
You said I was perfect
And you meant every word of it
Like a design-your-own character, I fit your every preference
My blue eyes, my bowed lips, my eyelashes
My rib cage, small enough for you to hold
You told me you loved my every curve
How my skin was just pale enough to complement yours
My height, my legs, my voice your favorite in the world
My brownish blond hair that you loved to twirl
I suppose for me, you weren't far off
Six feet tall, lean, but strong
A laugh that made me sad when I didn't hear it for too long
Dark brown curls that turned red with the season
You grew your hair out for me, but I'll never get to see it
You said I was your dream
But you weren't mine
Because the one that I dream of
Will never say goodbye
Apr 1, 2020
Apr 1, 2020 at 12:22 PM UTC
Searching in the gutters
of Meadow Row
and up along by the back
of the coal wharf
Benedict picked out
and up
dog ends
or cigarette butts
as his old man
called them
and picking them up
he tore open the paper
and tipped the tobacco
into a white paper
sweet bag
how can you do that?
Ingrid said
all those people’s
spit and dribble
on them
she pulled a face
he smiled
she looked serious
germs on them
she said
she wiped her hands
on her stained
green dress
he bent down
and picked out
another cigarette ****
and opened it up
between fingers
and thumbs
and emptied it
into the bag
you’re too young
to smoke
she said
if my dad saw me smoking
he’d smack me silly
she said
he does anyway
he said
she bit her lip
and looked away
sorry
he said
didn’t mean
to be like that
he touched her hand
she stared at him
through wire
framed glasses
she liked it when
his hand touched hers
no one else
touched her tenderly
she looked
at his cowboy hat
placed to the back
of his head
the six shooter gun
stuffed in the belt
of his jeans
the borrowed blue waistcoat
(his grandfather’s given
a month or so back)
she put her other hand
on top of his
he took his hand out slowly
in case other boys
from school may see
and walked to the shelter
of a wall
of a bombed out house
and they both sat down
he took out a packet
of cigarette papers
( liberated from
his old man)
and pulled out
a paper and shoved
the packet of papers
back in the pocket
of his jeans
and taking a pinch
of tobacco from the bag
he fingered it
in a straight line
into the cigarette paper
then rolled it
as he’d seen
his old man do
then licked the end
to form a thin cigarette
Ingrid watched in silence
as his fingers moved
and his tongue licked
you’re not going to
smoke it are you?
she asked
he put the cigarette
between his lips
sure am
he said John Wayne like
but you’re only 9
she said
you’re only 9
and you’re watching
he replied
he took out a box
of Swan Vesta
(borrowed from
the cupboard at home)
and lit the cigarette
and puffed slowly
she waved a hand
as smoke came near
her face
my dad will smell that
on me
she said
and think it was me
smoking and tell me off
she said
beat you black and blue
Benedict thought
not said
he coughed and spluttered
and took out
the cigarette
and blew smoke
from his mouth
and spat out phlegm
brownish yellow
if your old man hits you again
I’ll shoot him
full of cap smoke
he said
she laughed
and hit his arm
he flicked the cigarette
onto the bombsite
with a finger
and watched
as the smoke
he’d blown out
like a pale ghost
seemed to linger.
Sep 23, 2013
Sep 23, 2013 at 3:50 PM UTC
The moody morning sky, covering my palette again
white, green, yellow, zinc white and red
the ev'ning planet, spinning on, the rains in vain
my lover's blue came in, ev'ryone drops dead.
While gazing at the movements, perplexed and cool
white turns black, ruby red in brownish mess, the fool
where is he, where is he my metaphoric lover,
acentric he moves on with the blackest cover
The dark green trees are gazing at I
why are there deepsea blue clouds, treading forth, why?
I lose trees out of sight, gone is the lovely emerald light
now almost night, all blackest diamonds sleep tight.
Awfully sleepy, my mind is heady, my passion blurred,
when I gave up, I see beauty, how absurd !
My most magical moon right on the spot,
is a most beautiful fluorescent biggest dot
hypnotizing….
heaven-high on the home firmament.
© Sylvia Frances Chan
Nov 5, 2016
Nov 5, 2016 at 6:33 AM UTC
Your brownish-green eyes are my favorite.
They hold me in a trance,
make my heart flutter.
I want to hate you ..
Your browinsh-green eyes are ones that players behold.
I hate that whenever I'm in a crowd,
your always the one I first look for.
Whenever your next to me,
I have to fight myself to not take a glance.
I hate the way you cause me so much agony and pain yet,
you always occupy my mind.
When I try to date someone else,
they remind me of you.
But now I remember.
You never cared.
I was only a game.
And sadly,
you won.
I'm dying slowly,
using my energy to keep you near.
You hurt be dearly darling.
Your the reason for my tears.
The reason for the scars on my body.
It pains me to even look into your brownish-green eyes.
Because I know that if I do,
I will fall once again...
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 4:31 PM UTC
colin, was a camel
who liked to roam
a two ****** fella
sort of brownish yella
decidely cool and mellow
had an eye on the road
always moving forward
albeit at a somewhat leisurely pace
and always with a goofy
smile on his face.
never looked back
and that's a fact
often found straying
from the beaten track
never in lack
of a kind word or to
incredably pragmatic
in his point of view
when asked his opinion
on the world today
stated emphatically
ya just gotta hope
and pray....that
and stay outta
the big boys way.
colin the camel
who liked to roam
had eleven big brothers
who stayed at home
colin was wise
most were twiçe
his size
and the rest
had habits
that attracted flies.
so colin kept
more than one step ahead
cause if they caught up
with him
colin was dead....
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 7:43 AM UTC
Standing solid and still
just like the red oak it once was.
I trust it will hold me.
It’s sturdy and reliable.
Like the man who once sat in it.
The man who once held me.
It’s a coffee and cream color with
highlights of gold
and low lights of auburn
and each crack and stain tells
a story
The Maleficent purple stain
on the back right leg.
a toddler that would grow to be me
running with a PB&J in hand
unaware of my brother's Hot Wheels Derby
taking place beside the table.
All it took was one untied shoelace
and all I remember is a symphony of tiny cars
clinging and clanging
and four year old me
falling face first into the tile
As the PB&J propelled forward
smearing brownish, purple goop.
The crack where your left shoulder
might touch if you leaned back.
I honestly don't even know what it's from.
Maybe an argument that got too heated?
Or simple ware and tear over the years?
I never asked.
I’ll never know.
This chair brings me both
comfort and pain.
Comfort when I sit after a long day on my feet.
Pain when I walk by and stub my toe unexpectedly.
Comfort when I remember all the times he held me in it.
And pain when I remember he will never hold me again.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 3:25 PM UTC
I can see it in the distance
It's the River they call Styx
An I can see the Boat Man
Waiting for me holding out his hand
Ahead is Charon’s long black boat
In it many souls of those that are dead
A rough unkempt Athenian ******
All dressed in brownish red
His filthy matted beard is uncombed
His eyes burn like hollow pits of fire
A steady glow off the riverbed
A deathly foul oder laced in his attire
What is it that you pay the Ferryman
When you know your pockets are bare
The two coins that are on your eyelids
Will be enough to pay your fare
May 13, 2014
May 13, 2014 at 1:07 PM UTC
Scarves. high collars,
or extra mascara
hide the brownish-purple
disfigurement wrapped
around her throat.
Part of her being
is scarred with
remnant traces
inflicted from traumatic
scenes endured
during his rage.
Horrific echoes
careen around her brain
like video clips replaying
the self-hatred he
spilled upon her.
His crazed lashes
struck her
bone deep.
Musty smells
from those moments
linger among her nostril mucus.
She carries on
distracted with moments
near tranquil music
or beside still brooks
and squawking crows.
Each day she captures
views of sunrise
and sunset while chanting
mantras to unknown gods
striving to complete
her forgiveness.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 12:07 PM UTC
palette
russet, olive hues
yellow ochre
bird's egg blue
vastness held
within a bowl
turned over earth
to heal and hold
moisture from
the morning rain
thus the painter's
eye is trained
cadmium white
a fan-like brush
sketch mare's-tail clouds
an artist's touch
far horizon
grayish blue
a woman reclines
in the ****
her form reveals
the breasting hills
her hips the mountains
hushed and still
mid-ground
blurs of olive cacti
the saguaro
rise like hackles
Palo Verde lie in lumps
yellow flowers
bloom in clumps
point of brush
tweaks out the trees
turn of branches
stippled leaves
small are they
to catch the light
but the moisture
loss is slight
ochre foreground
brownish stones
blue-gray shadows
light source shown
grayish purple
prickly pears
ocotillo
here and there
spindly with splash of red
barrel cacti nod their heads
buff highlights
saguaro flowers
I could sit and
paint for hours
there's time to write
but now I pray
look upon these
words today
they paint the desert
you will find
If only in
the poet's mind!
SoulSurvivor aka
Write of Passage
2017
Mar 28, 2022
Mar 28, 2022 at 5:42 AM UTC
Give me grapes to be the retina of
Your piercing brownish *******
Let me quench my everlasting thirst
by drinking the wet milk at its tips
Give me roses to be the thorn of
Your soft, sharp spicy *******
Let me deep sleep in your arms
Smiling away my day dreams
Give me apples to be the kiss of
Your blossoming tender lips
Let me bite, leak and taste your
Poison of love, lust and hatred
By Williamsji Maveli
www.moonmakers.com
www.williamsji.com
www.williamsgeorge
www.microthemes.com
Oct 7, 2012
Oct 7, 2012 at 9:33 PM UTC
Her face
Sour
A washed out ugly gray
Similar to that of dishwater
With greenish clumps
That closely resemble
Expired milk clods
For eyes
Her hair
Worn out
An expanse of stringy greased mess
As if she’d dunked it into a fry cook’s sink
With the occasionally highlight
Of a darker, muddy brown
Like Mother Nature gave up on a painting
And left her
Her body
Frail
A structure of porous bones and blood
A once pure white soiled with brownish red speckles
The devoured remains of a media wolf’s snack
Unable to really hold itself up
It shudders and shakes constantly
Sort of like a hypothermic deadbeat
So undeniably ugly
Disgusting feeble and poor
Yet somehow
Against what all the yet of you see
I see something gorgeous
Something that could be loved
What I see in her
I love
Jun 10, 2011
Jun 10, 2011 at 9:06 AM UTC
First and foremost in everyone's mind
but mine
is the Green of the Crayola crayon.
As Green as factories and skyscrapers, like
man
and his tendency to take over.
Green looks different through my eyes.
I see the Green of a clover.
Green that is
alive.
Bouncing and bobbing and buoyant
as duckweed on the waves.
Promising and purposeful and persistent
as the first shoots of grass.
The Green that shows in the people with
bravery and bright smiles and bursting with
life.
I wish I was
lucky
enough to have more of the Green of a
clover.
I see the Green of an emerald.
The depth of Green,
the bottomless bottom of the ocean;
Green where I
drown in my thoughts.
The emerald city where my insignificance and significance
crush me all the same and I am
smothered in questions
questions
questions.
So many drown in the shallow Green of seaweed. The Green of
money and makeup and my god have you seen Melissa's haircut?
The dollar bill Green of
envy and greed
that stops so many so many from diving any
deeper.
I see the Green of ferns and the Green of cacti.
Soft, soothing Green of
enough sleep
and
tea in the mornings
or
sharp, sinister Green of
alone
and
you should have studied.
I see the Green of Christmas trees
that should mean family and giving and light but
instead
means pretend to like her and
smile at the right times and
why are you so
unfriendly I mean shy.
The dark, for everGreen of the most
wonderful
time of the year.
I see the Green of my eyes.
The bluish goldish brownish color
that everyone sees a little
differently
but that's ok.
Because everyone sees Green a little
differently.
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
I light a cigarette
and take a seat onto a damp lawn chair;
the smoke rises and billows
against the crimson colored shadows
like milk in water
and I watch as it goes up to the sky,
over my house where it leaves me to stare.
My mind is clear, eyes wide open,
ears dilate as cool droplets of water trickle down
with pitter patters through the leafy green stairs.
Some even skip from step to leaf top
as if to jump in a quick hurry toward its destination;
others fall in groups behind me
and morph into four legged creatures
that scatter across the moist ruffles
of old and weathered leaves.
Still, my focus is above.
This silent noise abounds from all directions:
a chirped song of a baby bird to my right,
the concerto soloist of a cricket in hiding below,
the bell whistle croak of a frog somewhere near by.
If my senses were a cup it would surely be full now:
Musky odors from a previous storm
that lie softly on the rich brownish-red soil
would rise like steam from its glass rim.
Inside, shavings of silver would gleam like diamonds in light,
and a cotton soft red wine would fill it
like the night does the sky.
And now as I sip from this natural perfection
I am reminded of your lips sweet interjection.
And as softly as the smoke had risen
toward the shadows of red light,
a kiss was lit and we both began to dance;
around your mouth mine had began to waltz,
slowly to and fro on tip toes being careful not to fall,
but you held me close and grasped me tight
like the red sky does the stars,
and like it and the wine that now fills my cup,
with you in that moment I was awe struck.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 2:56 PM UTC
My blond hair
parts on the right
and is straight
and thin.
My tan hair
is cut by a yogi
who has colon cancer
and I miss her.
My shorter hair
was very long
in the days of yore
like the sixties.
My brownish hair
once was
like short hair
that is in style
today
except with
butch wax
to make the front
stand up.
The tan hair
of the ladies
attracts me
especially
if it is
long and curly.
The blond hair
of my father
turned white
in his old age
but he
kept saying
that it
was blond.
What has hair
got to do
with it?
Heaven only
knows.
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 3:16 AM UTC
“I know you miss me touching myself , getting my pink ***** really wet begging to *** … Don’t you miss my round beautiful *** and how it shakes to every step I take naked ? I know you miss me , I know you want me you crave me I know you lay at home touching yourself sexually with the imaginations or the memories you have of me, you touch yourself and *** because of me, you miss my mouth and how small and wet my pink lips are and my titis you loved how small And perky they where and my pink brownish ******* You love and enjoyed every second of me how you loved my taste of my ***** how my *** slipped right into your mouth and my tight little *** hole you beg to **** , how I know you want to open me right up. I love it , I love to sit back and relax and watch you crave me, want me beg for me but you know I wouldn’t give you **** and I love the fact that you know I wouldn’t making you suffer of wanting me makes me feel good! So beg for me tell me how much you want me I love to hear you say it .”
Feb 22, 2017
Feb 22, 2017 at 2:46 AM UTC