"cosmetologist" poems
I'm having a devil of a time trying to define the stars around your eyes,
but hey, I'm not a cosmetologist.
I just thought maybelline we could dream about pretty things,
and make up lines that coincide with our collided fantasies.
With puffed up lips and fluffy language as safeguards against sudden incites,
tonight we'll finally smash our parts together if only to discover that we don't even like each other -
not even a little bit.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 11:06 PM UTC
Chasing
A dream
That can be harder than it seems
There was a time
When I was Young
That I wanted to be
Just like my mom,
The cosmetologist
I grew up
And killed that dream
Because it doesn't pay well
Then I wanted
To be a famous musician
And play in a band
With all of my friends
and for some time I did
That all ended
When I reminded myself
That catching fame
Is like catching a star
Something so close
Can only be far
So I started to draw
My own manga
Started to write
My own stories
Knowing
No one would ever read them
Knowing
No one would ever care
Not once did I try to
Make a life from it
Because living out of stories
Wouldn't get me anywhere
So now I am to be
a medical coder
Chasing something that is
Not at all what I wanted to be
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 8:46 PM UTC
I am leftovers
disappointing takeout
you spent too much money on
(you're supposed to be saving)
sitting in the back of the fridge
guilt keeping me there long past expiration
though I'm inedible
I like to hope that my stomach aches
and sluggish breath, heavy head
are symptoms of childhood dramatics
turned teenage angst
when I'm evicted from my teens
I'll probably call it a quarter life crisis
even so, I've accepted its permanence
I wish on dandelion fluff
variations of the same thing
that one morning I'll wake
from a night of giggles with people I love
swallow down papaya tablets
and the sickening feeling will actually dissolve
My happy is like hot glue
dripped on fingers - accidental
quick to stick
when it cools it molts
takes my fingerprints with it
leaving my finger tips raw
I can't keep secrets, especially my own
they like to creep up my throat
slither out unannounced
while I'm on car rides; restless
they can't hold still for the four hours
that get me everywhere I know now
I used to be incapable of shutting my eyes
when the cosmetologist rinsed my hair
it felt like a trick
like shed crack my neck on the sink
as soon as I relaxed
instead I'd count ceiling tiles to avoid eye contact
Now I feel proud
when I fall asleep on the train
or with someone else in my bed
I count how long I can squeeze
my eyes shut in the cereal aisle
forcing trust to prove something to myself
Jan 29, 2021
Jan 29, 2021 at 12:18 PM UTC