"cheekbone" poems
You looked much prettier with long hair.
Don’t - give me that, show me a smile
it’s better to be natural oh!
look your arms are so hairy, hairier than mine.
Not rowdy or older than myself but definitely
confident and intelligent and maybe even
‘quirky’ as long as she’s thin
and kind. Because I don’t like fat girls
how to find your dream woma
where to find dream woman online free
I think I’m still in love with Grace but
she ignores and blanks and shuns me even
after I shared so much yet
she doesn’t even seem to care
hey
I’m verrru drunk
I see u
the little green dot next to your name haha
night then iguess
I think I just hate women and that
stupid insipid conceited *****
couldn’t tell a good guy if
he cuffed her clean
across the cheekbone
and spat in both her eyes
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 7:06 PM UTC
when she was eight years old
she
asked her mother
have you seen the girl with
lashes like butterflies against sharp cheekbone branches?
a dandelion sprouting from sludge covered gutters and streets
streets, where you feel that bitter bland nothingness in your stomach
it feels buttery to stare at her:
see how snow outstretches arms and twirls tippy toes, envies her grace
see how balloon sized raindrops pop, target the freckles on her arm
see how her forehead crinkles when she concentrates, nothing more than a beacon
proclaiming she trickles with stars
when she was eight years old
her parent's violent protests slipped bruises under her skin like pennies in a coin slot
but they could not contain the celestial girl tucked under her ribcage.
she would still look at her like she was the breakfast sun on a saturday
whistling by the creak, catching glimpses of dresses from behind the legs of trees.
see how this is special love, sweet as strawberry fields under soft sun
they would never feel on their forked, sour tongues
Oct 15, 2017
Oct 15, 2017 at 2:35 AM UTC
you wake up
his hair is spilled across the pillow,
the sun slants across his cheekbone
and his breath is slow and even.
he smells like an open field
and his body is wrapped around yours
so he keeps you warm.
you think,
there is no moment better than this,
that he is too perfect to exist.
but you wake up gasping,
skin soaked in sweat.
you lie there for a long time,
in your completely empty bed.
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 10:57 PM UTC
I sketched a faceless man today
I put more details in his hands than I ever could in his eyes
I drew a faceless woman today
forward facing
I put more details on the muscles of her back
than I ever could her nose
I painted a faceless child today
I put more details on his body
than I ever could his lips
I painted faceless beings today
all hollowed out alone
my art teacher looked at me like i was a little disturbed
I could not explain to him that the hollow of her cheekbone
will have more meaning
than the color of her eyes
or the voluptuousness of her lips
and that the strain in her shoulders
will show
and that man will have more meaning in the creases
of his palms
than I could ever put on the lines of his face
And all I could think of was
How that faceless woman had a **** good
***
May 21, 2012
May 21, 2012 at 10:11 PM UTC
They pretended not to notice how much you had changed
But they did comment on your thinning face
And how much healthier you looked
How much better
They pulled you to the side "Oh my gosh, how did you do it?"
Quizzical looks
They didn't know that the weight you lost
Was unintentional
A compensation for the heavy load inside
You tried to somehow shake off
You hated your jutting rib bones,
Losing your sanity along with your "baby" fat
You lost what made you a woman
No no one noticed your gaunt eyes
and the sharp angle of your cheekbone
Like pain
and the way you started drinking
(Although you never stopped)
They didn't notice the new scars you kept hidden with makeup
Meticulous
careful
calculating
So unlike you
No no one noticed how your eyes shone a little less brighter
Especially when you smiled
Apart from that ex-boyfriend you left a winter ago
Standing in the cold
Because he was an *******
But ******** can be right
And you saw the way he looked at you like-
the way you used to look at a broken mirror
Wondering which piece to pick up first
And start gluing back together
The way you looked at your own blood flow from your wrist's
A little scared, amazed, numb..
Like "Where do we start first?"
And "What happened here?"
Thats how he looked at you
Atleast someone noticed
Jan 6, 2012
Jan 6, 2012 at 12:27 PM UTC
Crystal beads of sweat
It's the beginning of a flood
Their translucence reveals an anguish
That is growing underneath
Causing them to swell
A great heaviness pulls
There is no resistance
They start a lowly journey
Moved in surrender to greater will
As the purest heart crumbles
One drop follows after another
Forming glistening streaks
Along a spotless brow
The tender heart soon shatters
Under the weight of woe
Drops fall to the ground
Like glistening shards of crystal
Where the beads first surfaced
A single crimson drop forms
It slowly paints a stripe
Down that stainless skin
It rolled along the hairline
Over the cheekbone to the jaw
In a moment of uncertainty
It clung there at the edge
With no alternative to release
The final hold was given up
Like a rose petal it fluttered down
Gently landing in dampened earth
Where sweat and tears first fell
At this silent touch of crimson
Broken crystal drops transformed
Color slowly deepening
Dirt glittering with garnets
Each hearts' filth was covered
But their purity had this stain
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 4:07 PM UTC
Through the gaps in the airline-style seating
I catch glimpses
snapshots
of her face
(or at least,
Its constituent parts)
An almond eye, subtly lined
a rise of cheekbone, flushed but unblushed,
and half of her smile
directed at me?
And I feel like Picasso
piecing together
the jigsaw piece sections
from an altered perspective
and seeing her whole
as beautiful.
Aug 29, 2011
Aug 29, 2011 at 7:22 AM UTC
i found myself split in two
sitting on the kitchen floor
with a bruise the colour of plum
on the underside of my left cheekbone
it pulsed when i looked up to the lights
to find all the mistakes i ever made
staring back into my genetically altered pupils
whom further represent
any means
in which i felt to fit in
so with skin the colour of peach
and eyes the colour of sapphire
its hard to think id be here to begin with
with blood shot eyes
and medicated smiles
its hard to think
that you were once the only person
i'd want to be with
i don't want you at all
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:12 PM UTC
(Give me a London girl every time…)
*- I want to push my hands into your hips and smack you back to front against the wall, bunching your **** little skirt in my fingers, unclipping those fifties plastic beauties that cling to your thighs and I want you to be a right proper girl for me, a right proper girl -*
(…I’m gonna find one, I’ve made up my mind…)
So she got her phone out and
Smiled her Madonna-Gap smile,
Fine lines floundering
Like speech marks
Either side of her mouth.
So romantic!
A girl with a face of
Punctuation!
***** pennies,
she said,
Your eyes are
*****
*******
Pennies*
She would finger the holes
In my tatterdemalion
Charity coats,
And my shop-bought medals.
She would jab her fingers
Against each point
Of the Burma Star,
Spookily,
As though it were a
Pentagram.
She’s a washboard,
Her ******* are thumb-tacks
In a cosmetic shade of
Gold,
With a crucifix stamped
Like a dagger glyph
Right between them,
like a silver sneer,
on her precious metal chest.
*- I want to take your photo -
I want you in Pippi Longstockings
And to angle you just so, my no-knickered **** with her goosebumps on show -*
I’ll never forgot when she told me
She owned a leopard-skin
Pill-box hat ,
And I said
* “You’d have to be dead
Not to fancy that…”*
I’m not sure how aware she is though,
Of how many people
Tongue- to- the -floor want her.
She plays bored on purpose!
I’ve watched beautiful boys
Go to pieces
Trying to entertain her
With a curly straw.
She’s a real cheekbone feline,
And around her pupils
Rages a ring of jagged orange,
Like a jester’s ruff.
And I think of all this,
Whilst she stands there,
Moving from toe to toe
In her zig-zag heels,
And wooden bracelets,
And her little lycra
Landmine that
Shop assistants sell
To girls like her.
And then she clocks me.
and she doesn’t say a thing -
she just swims smilingly over
Through a parted gaggle,
Letting me grab her
Like I mean it,
Spanning her waist with my
Hands like
A corset -
And the fairylights
Are just smudges
Across her sequins,
And her mottled shoulders are
Ten shades
Of mostly white.
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 9:35 AM UTC
To a cat in a cul-de-sac,
she's a stone rose,
malaise with no remorse and a penchant for suicidal grammar.
Backsassing and backroom massaging
her way from Tanner, Illinois to Irving, Texas --
her interstate veins and her data plan brain
catered to the orifices of the weary,
and soothed the spidertongued and sleepy.
In the last postcard, she signed Evangeline,
the number of name changes: 23
in the Sunflower State alone.
A dive bar in Ulysses, Kansas
beamed as a brilliant model of
"Starved wives and stray dogs," Evangeline explained.
*"I found the dark side of beet farmers
and the redemption in callused hands."*
A letter came from Pryor, Oklahoma:
"Recognize the perfume?"
The only line.
Printer paper close, inhale --
my mind drifts to my former
high cheekbone'd bride, Skye.
Evangeline bedded her spindly body.
Spite, spite, spite.
Confused, I answered her call on the
first morning of December.
Tent living with a retired acrobat on
the growing shoreline of Lake Texoma,
she downed a mixed bag of his sleeping meds,
and sleeping by his side, she fantasized about me.
*"I think you drank too much in my dreams.
I woke up dissatisfied."*
Once she arrived in Irving, I mailed her
my edit of her suicide note.
A call to say it looked good,
and she'd let me know if she ever had
to use it.
I never heard from her again.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 12:32 AM UTC
looking around me, 19 second stop at a red light and already the large, bearded man with the scar on his cheekbone is grumbling, scratching at his bushy mustache and drooping Yankees hat, so faded it could almost be a B for the red sox
there's a young woman, ***** blonde hair cascading down her back, almost gracefully; seemingly too small for the rumbling white pickup truck she sat in, scratched and almost a tint of blue from this angle; one hand at the wheel, one tickling the feet of a giggling newborn at her side, for a second i wondered who the father was-
and over there, a skinny Hispanic boy by the side of the road, walking with threadbare sandals flapping against the hard cement, there's a hopeless look in his eyes-
an old man with a 5-inch long grey beard, almost touching the steering wheel; he's either Asian or he's squinting into the sun, can't really tell from here- wrinkles lining his worn face
a strong-boned Japanese woman, hair in a tight bun driving a Ferrari
a red-haired bespectacled boy, pale as chalk, his face covered with freckles (or was it acne?); couldn't have been older than 17; he looked like a Robert or a Charles, definitely not a Samuel
in front of me, a red Chevy truck with a license plate LUVANN, i wonder if Ann is still with him- i crane my head upwards trying to see the man, all i can glimpse is a blue-and-white bandana-
i wonder who all these people are,
what are their hopes and dreams, do they like ******* jacks? banana splits?
where are they going?
who will miss them when they're gone, or will anyone-
then the light turns green and in a puff of smoke,
like a blur-
they're gone.
Nov 22, 2010
Nov 22, 2010 at 3:12 AM UTC
In ***** socks
& with rusty hearts
we’d swing off docks
Throwing mindless darts
Cooked deep tan
Freckled cheekbone
A sizzling dripping pan
We didn’t answer the phone
Swinging into a wide lake
On a salty afternoon
Restless but wide awake
In a humid summer’s June
Downing a bottle of wine
We stole from your brother
Watching the sun lick the horizon line
The night dropping in to smother
Can we go back to the days?
When we weren’t caught in this maze
But instead in the suns rays
We lived in a lovely blue haze
May 28, 2013
May 28, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
Daniel?
A piggish snort. Crusted eyes crack open like the wings of a beetle. Ragged nails scrape against the red-worn desert of an adolescent jawbone. A fishlipped yawn.
Ugh. What?
What did you call that plant thing again?
Jesus, James. Waxwood. It's a reddish bark. Oozes this cloudy stuff if you crush it.
Oh. Yeah, of course. Sorry.
**Ambient silence. Raindrops fill with rotting organic sediment and fall into the leaves around the
clapboard tollbooth. A zealous fist of ivy tightens its tattered fingers across rheumatic windowpanes.**
Dan?
Mm?
Why don't you like to talk about Clifftown?
Ambient silence. Raindrops. Ivy.
I’ll tell you why I don’t like to talk about Clifftown.
Go on.
Sigh.
I was born there. Before all this happened, it was this small village where onions grew. Not many people lived there. There was... Christ. A church, a chemist, a library and a few houses. The biggest house was this tall yellow clapboard place, which was on the cliff by the sea. This kid who lived there. He wasn’t -
A thud as a gesticulating knuckle rasps against splintered pine.
*-Ow, **** - didn’t look human. His head was big and soft like a berry, and his eyes were wide and wet and creepy, and he never spoke. It was like he was empty.*
What’d you say his name was again?
Never did.
A dusty rubbing noise as the fluid is forced out of a cheekbone.
Leviticus Croker. He died when he fell from a low salt cliff into the sea or something. Can’t remember.
**** I’m sorry.
Don’t be. I hated him.
A lump of pressed asphalt sends a clouded multitude of motes spinning and passes screaming through the glass pane of the sunwards window. A chuckle.
That was a year ago. They had to blame somebody.
Oh. Right.
An eyelid raised in revelation traps a mote against the skin stretched taut across a young skull.
Right. ****
Aug 16, 2012
Aug 16, 2012 at 6:04 PM UTC
Here's you
with your Sunday eyes
violet shadows
pooling in the arches
and the dips
dancing across
your cheekbone
the way I want to
You are every
pink rose
beach agate
white feather
which a
child finds
Here's you and
those gorgeous
Sunday eyes.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 12:59 AM UTC
She used to read me poems she’d made out of glass and soft wool, and I’d always fall asleep to her lilting words. A ring sat on the 3rd finger of her left hand, a pair of kissing silver fish. She twisted it when she was nervous, and when I looked at her for too long.
Although I am sure she often looked at me for longer.
Some days I almost forget her name, and it makes me sad. So I wrote it down on a slip of paper and now keep it in my pocket, for that insane fear of letting her go entirely. Clementine; she was beautiful. One detail I remember clearest was she only had one freckle in her entire life. It sat just underneath her left cheekbone, and she liked it because I did.
Mar 9, 2011
Mar 9, 2011 at 2:14 PM UTC
Oh no,
it was not of the ordinary kind.
It was not the ****** ****
to leave a puddle in the bath.
It was not reckless, it was not thoughtless.
It was a **** of no other kind.
Oh when I think of it
and when I hear the crows
hovering above in the sound of the bell.
That rusty bell, when the sun is gone,
together with the crows,
on time they all sing,
precise as the ****
Oh no,
it wasn't a bullet, shot in shake and fear,
it wasn't a sloppy slip, one fast and quick.
It was a **** foresighted and long before known.
It was silent, yet loud and felt.
A type of ******
when a queen murders a king.
A type of killer she was,
who put poison in the chunk of bread
in the sight of the murdered.
That food was sweeter than life,
when eaten from the fingertips of the sensational murderess.
It was swallowed with joy,
yet known it is poison.
Simple, when looked from far,
venom she whispered and sipped,
from the killer red dry lips,
that ate away the skin.
Not a spot when on the spotlight,
she is a predator of no other kind;
The killer, claws the prey,
with the most gentle of touch.
It was not a moment, a blink of some day,
it was over and over,
every gasp, every second of every day.
It was not a knife to the back,
it was clean and open - wound to the front;
Facing her gaze,
oh, she pierced it right in the heart.
It was the sharpest of blades, over and over again...
As they say,
there are few swords that cut so deep,
as the blade of unrequited love.
As I walk now in the sun's light of noon
and remember the days,
I still feel the warmth of air passing in my open heart;
I still taste the blood of my already fallen skin.
I writhe a little...
Then I softly grin,
from cheekbone to chin -
I think of the time when you murdered me.
Mar 15, 2015
Mar 15, 2015 at 6:45 PM UTC
Arizona sunrise a leaf below his feet,
February tug of war led the rope to feather.
Stuck between pyramids and a desert flat
above sewers of east Brooklyn,
bridges emptied dust to flame.
He covered rice paper with delicate yellow birds,
and tore his clothes to shreds.
Swapped sleep for a girl in faded overalls,
but no flowers from his garden
high amongst the clouds
could match her feathered beauty
so he bought a peppered owl.
The great salt lake shriveled her skin,
the birds heavy flesh hit the ground,
leaving a mark deeper
then the **** on her shoulder.
Still, she stuck to him like syrup
but sweet faded to sun.
Trapped inside a number maze
with dyslexia in reverse,
only shivers of winter to remind
he is as alive as the moons cheekbone
hanging
haunting the sky.
He cried twice that year.
Once when the bees carried feet from honey,
and again when he lost his eyes to the sea.
He wrote love letters to the albino fifth graders older sister
and never once
thought twice.
The sky, a compass
swinging
swaying,
a weeping willow in his veins sobbed until every ounce of blood was salt.
Sinking as fast as his heart
last February
to the crust of the sea.
Perfect shape took form,
he never wondered why.
Open eyes uncovered
folded faded overalls beside a door unopened.
Smile like silk
pulled him into her lips,
swallowed him whole.
Forever he will wade
and wait
in the beehive of her belly.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 3:24 PM UTC
there's a pimple on my left cheekbone
and one of my brows is plucked
a little thinner than the other.
the only makeup on my face
is the black on my eyelashes
my eyes
burst
green.
my mouth (my rosebud mouth, my mother
smiles) like a slightly opened
slightly troubled
bow.
my brow is furrowed
my eyes are searching
one of my ring-and-bracelet hands
holds back my hair (short)
and my elbow
rests.
i look at myself,
head-tilting, quick-sketching
the curves of my features
in a single line of ultra-fine Sharpie.
what you see is what you get.
my eyes frown into themselves
through the mirror.
i am long
i am lanky
i am lovely.
i am a little lost
and very found
i am angsty
i am achey
i am laughing
i am me -
if you only look at yourself for a second
you tend to miss
how beautiful you are.
it isn't my vanity.
it's the universal, and most unbelieved
truth.
i brush back my hair
and i puff my cheeks out.
i sigh, and i look at myself
in the cheap mirrors set out
on the art-room tables.
"not bad," i say to the single line of ultra-fine Sharpie-version of my face.
and it isn't.
even though
i left out the pimple.
Oct 21, 2011
Oct 21, 2011 at 5:17 PM UTC
In the hope that my knees will touch rainbows
I arch my back to the heavens.
If I close my eyes tight I can almost feel the flit
Of a hummingbird’s wings on my cheekbone,
my brow.
And yet there is, too, beauty in the imperfections-
Holes in socks,
cold coffee,
weatherworn hands.
For all that we see hides the unseen,
The blind curling of bodies towards one another and
Snow falling in the deep chill of the night.
Because the fact that we still bleed and babies cry
Means that we are alive
Too bold to lie down and die.
Shall I kiss the wind with the same sweet sorrow
That plagues my soul,
Or shall I close my eyes tight
And feel the prism of light
-not unlike a rainbow
Dec 29, 2012
Dec 29, 2012 at 3:38 PM UTC
I have murdered another human being.
I have murdered someone like me,
Kicking and thrashing
Until his face wasn't right.
It was sideways, wonky, part of his
Nose touching his mouth, bleeding
With his cheekbone crushed inward
All from the swift power of
These worn leather boots.
He had held us hostage for days
Killed a friend of a friend
With a purposeful chiropractic crack
Of the neck gone too far.
We had been freed.
He had stood there smiling
As he dealt the final blow
To our esteem, having kept us
All as his sick twisted harem.
All it took was a smile and
I lost my mind.
Bashing the back of his head
That balding crew cut bloodied
On a rusting sprinkler in the yard.
My tired leather boots did the
Rest of my ***** work.
He resembled a stroke patient
When my boots held their fire.
Too much blood for a lack of life.
I awoke in my bed, safe and
Unscathed by my mind's loss
Of complete control.
Genuine surprise took me, seeing
Those leather boots of mine sit
Peacefully in the corner
Never seeing battle, never
My accomplice in ******
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 9:07 PM UTC
he's stand still,
teeth gritting, frozen and captivating
wishing you were as outstanding
the thoughts are thrilling
stone cold, lining the gums
numbing every thought and tooth
another quarter in the phone booth,
short of breath
never winning
he's watching every move you make
making you wish you could rewrite the storyline
but happy endings only happen in fairy tales
another glass slipper, a promising kiss of eternity
the cusp of where his cheekbone meets the tuck of his smile on the side of his face has me thinking how lines can meet and get lost, just like a poisoned Apple meets the lips of purity
Adam and Eve had problems, but even
children of God inhale sins and exhale reality
because he is beautiful and still,
but I will always be everlasting, exhausting the feeling of empathy.
but I'm still trying to remember every line that combined his every ****** expression.
Stuck on his side profile like its the last sunset before dawn.
he's still again, he's capturing my creativity, I'm sketching his lips, I'm understanding the breaks in between his breaths and the tide,
my teeth become loose, salt seeps in every crack,
burying them beneath the nape of his jawline,
where the thoughts of him began and ended.
his jawline is sketched in my mind
in my mind,
in my mind
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 8:31 AM UTC
With iron and honey I glaze both cheeks
while two bees bumble up each cascade
pressing curvy pumping abdomens
with points plying as they scrape
each presses into a cheekbone producing
blossoms of irritated wine and grape
pixilated with pyrexia I collapse in a
webbed hammock perplexed
and wait and wait
my mouth blazing I gaze up and despise
the puffy diluted masses in fields of blue
my cheeks dilated threatening to thunder
and then a pause as sweat brings honey
tumbling uncontrolled
out from within
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 3:18 AM UTC
We are twins
Finite & infinite
I'd like to direct
Your attention
To our souls
Summiting
Three Sisters
In bitter cold
I bathe in the dark
ocean
Of hair locked
In stare at jade
Cheekbone
Soul sewn
Skin to skin
pretend that you are
Sleeping next to me
Breathing next to me
multiplied and added powers
By the gleam of your laugh
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 4:12 PM UTC
you are a diamond and there is a speck of eyeliner winged out and smudged on your cheekbone.
even diamonds have flaws.
we are driving down a narrow highway onto a bridge and you snort when you laugh. i'm dreaming because i don't think real life has an 8mm film reel collecting all the times we felt like we were flying. when we felt like we were in a movie and we were heroes. we were royalty and when you smile, it feels like heaven. it feels like all the gold in the world has been poured into my veins, it feels like good drugs and good friends and a good life.
i have sunglasses on my face and a thin tan line on my shoulder blade and your freckles dot your eyes more than any alphabet, a play on words, witty banter, your solid, subtle smile with parentheses near your cheeks.
when i think of you, i think of cherry chapstick, a whole pizza to ourselves, and your glasses. i think of hope and fate and destiny and love, not the kind of love we hear thrown around during friday night football, but the kind of love that doesn't burn out. the kind of love that resembles crystal and fun times and the things that quiet poets write about after they drink ***** for the first time. the love that keeps its infinities hidden under its sleeves, like the pen ink on your arms under your sweater.
i think of flowers and cigarettes and laughing and smoking and crossing everything off of our bucket lists, running to little rivers and giving new life to old constellations, telling prophets our stories; we became royalty, we became the night that our friends dreamed of.
Apr 14, 2015
Apr 14, 2015 at 8:19 PM UTC
she falls for the beauty
of the cheekbone and spine
constellations of freckles
road maps of arteries
as she combs her fingers
through luscious waterfalls
she harbors a constant longing
to understand the vital *****
residing in his chest cavity
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 1:17 AM UTC