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Jade Aug 2019
volume i
A Portrait of My Sixth-Grade Self
___________________­

Eleven-year-old fingers
swollen with baby fat
dig into the gaudy shimmer
of turquoise eyeshadow
encased in its shattered compact.

I apply the pigment,
erratic smudges extending
from my lash line
to just below my untamed brows.

The blue powder accentuates the swirls
of my fingerprints in dizzy figure eights.

But you can't quit your own skin
like you can quit ice skating lessons.

I am in the sixth grade
when the Popular Girls
in my class tell me that,
if I want to get a boy to like me,
I have to change the way I look.

I abide by the rules of the
Unofficial Mean Girl Doctrine:

{no. 1}

I mustn't wear sweat pants,
these sloppy Old Navy rags
that I have owned for three years.

See,
denim is superior to cotton
even though it leaves
cavernous indentations
on my stomach.

Sweat pants forgive
the extra swell of your waist line.

Denim punishes you
for what you don't have,
more specifically
for what you have too much of.

I ask my mom for skinny jeans
because perhaps if I can
shrink all that I am
into this blue, unyielding fabric
I will feel thinner than I actually am.

We buy the skinny jeans from Old Navy.

{no. 2}

My signature high pony tail is
unacceptable.

I should wear my hair down,
they profess.

I am not sure if this is
because of the tufts of frizz
that loom over my scalp
like wasted dandelion seeds

(I wish... I wish... I wish...)

or if this is just a necessary ritual
in the abandonment of my girlhood.  

After I unsheathe my curls
from their rubber-band Bastille,
their trial commences.

My ringlets slither
in hostile circulations,
executing frequent detours away
from anyone who might scoff
at their animalistic bedlam.

If only I could will
my spectators to stone.

Cuz no one ever dared
**** with Medusa
and her curls.

Instead,
I settle for a flat iron.

{no. 3}

Do everything in your power to be
Beautiful
including, but not limited to,
the laws indicated above.

Yet,
despite my grandest efforts,
it is never enough.

I am never enough.

I am the Walmart Edition
of what the Popular Girls
want me to be.

With my gaudy eyeshadow and the
cheap Dollar Store bracelets
that I wear around my wrists,
plastic flowers blooming
upon threaded stems
that nip at the hair on my arms.

One day on the bus ride home,
a boy from my class tells me
I am too hairy.

"Huh?" I ask,
pretending I haven't heard him.

"Nothing," he mumbles back to me.

See,
little girls are supposed to play with
jump ropes and Barbie Dolls.

They are not supposed to
play with razors as they strip away
every misplaced hair on their body
or consult Teen Vogue
for the latest beauty hacks
like they are Gospel.

This year of 2011/2012
has been engraved  into
the historical road map
of my every insecurity.
The legend of this map,
depicted in smeared globules
of sugar cookie lipgloss,
deliver me to my destination:

self hatred.

Mascara stains the
topography of my flesh
in inky, dotted lines

I follow.

I plummet
like the eternal run
in my stockings.

One way plane ride
non-stop
never to return
from this perception of ugliness
and then--

flight


down.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site: notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/tickledpurple

Mobile Site: notapreciousgem.wixsite.com/purplemobile
Born Sep 2014
I still write about life's tragedy
and its circulations
the things that call for celebrations
and the ones that cause damnations

Am not good with goodbyes
i  never was
when things grew tough
i walked away

I've never felt a thing
i escaped attachments
i stayed away
and embraced solitude

I know most of us don't
understand my poems
my character is not that out
standing
i dodged bullets
and my heart grew solid
Quentin Briscoe Nov 2014
Complex circulations of electric impulse.... firing in impulsive reaction to there own free will....Yet they do not think...and send out missions and directions to ****... that which was intended to heal...Now I feel all types of unwanted ****... infecting the young....Floating around in unwanted company...Hoping to gain immunity...to death...Witch is the confusion of calling it blessed....See I've seen them looking around...but the only placed being searched is the ground...CC's of un wanted foes wandering about...In incorrect form yet perfectly round about...They have placed intricate circuits through out the mind...That have been set to detonate in time...Not blow no suicide bombers here...but to carefully inject the inception...Will you be fooled...misconstrued ..deceived to believe...that this is honestly received...or manipulated...by these impulse that have conjugated...To act upon what they feel...instead of what is real..No thought process...not time to progress...Only to stay the same...spreading to brain after brain.....after brain.........are you still >THERE
I love word play but my message is serious....
Sierra Elizabeth Dec 2012
I used to hold your hand, grasp your fingers, and never let go. You thought this was silly, you said I'd cut off our circulations of blood flow, but I didn't care. You were mine, and I wasn't about to let you out of my grip.

Too bad you slipped, floating away from me, drifting farther and farther. And all I could do was watch.  

It reminded me of a balloon I held once, a pretty yellow one I got at a fair; my small fingers clutching it tightly. Mommy told me to tie it to my wrist, so it wouldn't blow away. I should have listened.

As it took to the air, lifting higher and higher, into the clouds;
All I could do was helplessly stand there. Until the yellow dot in a sea of blue; eventually just became part of the sky.
It made me cry.


I think boys are like those pretty balloons, not all, but most. They come in many different colors and many different sizes and shapes.

Some say things like "I love you,"  "I'm yours." or even "Happy Birthday."
Others forget to tell you anything like that at all.
They just hover above you, as you clasp them in your hands, hoping with all your might that you are enough to make them stay.

And honestly, some are just meant to be "let go" or "set free."
Because they're not worth keeping, no matter what you tell yourself.
Born Nov 2015
Fame
Money, exaction of reality

life, envying their dreams!! perfections

existence full of theories and vexation

this is my perception

like a beautiful lie theirs no affection

always dreaming the same things, there's no end to this circulations

a nightmare, no strength for confrontation

sometimes the thoughts are good but no relations

always sweating, trying to make this icicles

double checking, mixed up, confused with this feelings of  ambiguation

when will this end, illusions
leonard gorski Sep 2014
That great emptiness in my heart
For years,
Spacious as the most distant dream
In which You appear suddenly…
For to fulfill me of Your beauty,
And praise the day and the light of raising,
For not to the precipice in space
Of the missing events as countless things:
Suffering and joy in the solitude of
Life…

That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…

To Be…


Again, and again
Reality tunes up:
Inflow and the outflow of the waters,
The fullness of the Moon and New Moon,
Rising Sun and Sunset,
Falling of leaves and shooting of buds,
Waters circulations around the Glob,
Life - Love - Death and
New Life.

Rhythm and rocking,
The Rise and Fall,
Inspiration and Exhalation
Countless forms of Existence.

Whosoever has the access in
The Fullness of the Beauty and Life?
At front of the Being
Which lasts as an invisible smile:
Mona Lisa or Buddha?

Whosoever participates in
The total suffering of Christ’s
Painful Mystery?

That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…

To Be…


How much do You need
From it
To praise each day by
Art and Work?

How much do You need
To jump into a day, anew
As into a water
With a hope, You can once at last
Find the Secret Script
Which is not soaked through yet, in the bottle…
To read it!


That everything - to feel
The exhale of Eternity,
Inhale of Love…

To Be…



July - November 2008
Leonard Gorski © copyright
The small words

“All that's mean nothing” not my words
but I often think about it, when reading the newspaper
I look for the no-news the filling of space
the news is often there and when **** flies they are taken
by surprise busy reading the headlines.
Being so wrong the want to set aside democracy and civil
behaviour the by- line has become a headline we must
demonstrate denounce the new from the stage or pulpit
by the pompous and incompetent
perhaps it would help to read the alternative press they
have less to lose and don't worry about circulations  and
no capitalist master to serve
Ayn Feb 2020
With my chin upon my hand
And my countenance bearing
An unintentional scowl of boredom,
I realize that my hand is beating
Just as my heart would.

I feel the pulsations
As my blood continues
With its rhythmical circulations.
I’m bored so I guess I’ll play Minecraft. A bunch of new updates have come since like 2015 so I kinda wanna check it out.
Emma Katka Dec 2016
watch out for the weight
they should say
after you fall in love and fall into place
watch out for the weight
you'll learn how easy it is to stay in
when it's just you and him
watch the world spin
where the **** do i get in
and how the **** do i get out
when the spinning stops blurring
and it's all black
and my words are slurring
you've got me ******* & cut off
circulations burst from string and it's stinging
i'm a purple and blue hue
feeling like a walking bruise
words pack more punch than they used to
i don't really mind hurting
you gave everything & that's true
what can break isn't broken
it just needs time and space to soak in
Onoma Nov 2020
emerging cowls from densifying

mists, hanging around featureless faces.

instantly recognizable strangers

of pain, walking barefoot on snow.

leaving footprints that stalk that

downy white straight to the hearth.

givers and bearers of all its variety--

shattering circulations of its lifeblood,

cold to the touch.

they come for those whom they come--

without exception, and are known for

all that they are.
Storm has come with an outdoor glance
Loss of power leads to candle wax
Summer heat and sweet romance

Lit up like a jack-o’-lantern
Down the hallway comes
Spooky with an orange glow
And an unfamiliar hum

Caught up in the evenings plot
To have and hold or to have not
The warm airs circulations got
No other place to go

So we wait out the savage storm
Ferocious danger since it was born
Furious is it’s chosen norm
And runs it’s course till dawn

— The End —