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Waverly Nov 2011
I only smoke
when you're around
or when I'm around you,
I don't know which is which
just that a consumption is going on
within me.

You reach down into your pocket book
and pull out a few killing sticks
hopefully,
I'll die of consumption.

That little creature
inside me,
the pink satyr,
jumps
in between my ribs,
whenever you go rummaging
in that golden shimmer of stripper's purse,
and **** out the Marlboros
with a wet-lipped,
wide-arcing
smile.


The creature,
the real me,
plays with his
satyr ****
all day
and bites his nails
and soft cuticles
until the blood runs
and pools in
little
red
pearls.

I am love-starved,

and the satyr is afraid
when he jumps
because that means you're around.

When I'm around you,
or you're around me
something smells,
possibly the iron
of the ******
left-over finger flakes.

The satyr picks up
the soggy,
spit out nails
and shingles
my heart with them.

The satyr shingles my heart
with the fear that you will leave
and that I will have no one
to consume
or be consumed by.


You are my ******
nails and cuticles.

What a ******* emo
you
make me.

I am uncomfortable,
even,
with the notion
that you have an effect
on me.

That's why I dismiss it,
with that whole
"What a ******* emo" title.

And that whole
"What a ******* emo."
last line.
No Name Oct 2012
I’ll conceal your shifting hands,
Palms pressed,
Calluses to torn cuticles,
All thumbs and knuckles and nails,
And I don’t know her, violet-scented creeping infestation
and
How you’ve worn me down, there’s a hole in my sleeve-
And I’ve let you chew on me, sweat on me, I’ve
I’ve kept you warm
And
You used me,
You used me to conceal
illicit activities,
hands in pockets, shrugging eyes off,
never been cigarettes in there, nope,

And you let her peel me off of you, the one with violet hands
that weren’t so gentle, but violent,
voracious,
tearing in at you,
as I watched from the floor
she scratched the skin that I kept safe and warm,
and
and
Why did you leave me crumpled on the floor and then
And then let her take me home, draped over her bony shoulders
to billow like a parachute,
before she squeezed me half to death that night in her sleep?
Casey Mar 2019
I hate the word "perfect".


Nobody can be perfect.
It's literally impossible.

They say, "Don't change, you're perfect as you are."
Humans can't be perfect.
It's not in our nature.

Our media portrays perfection as people's personalities painted in pretty pastel.
Don't be fooled.
Perfection is disgusting.

Perfection
is tearing your hair out over a simple dashed line
in front of the "A" on the report card.

Perfection
is raking chewed cuticles across your cheeks
for missing the kick in Phy. Ed class.

Perfection
is spilling your guts out after every meal and screaming into the mirror,
"Am I perfect yet?! Am I good enough for you?!"

Perfection
is ripping apart the artwork you poured your heart into
because someone pointed out a flaw, and now you can't unsee it.

Perfection
is gorging on painkillers
as if they would take away the emotional pain, too.

Don't you dare tell me that I'm perfect
because perfection is disgusting.


I hate the word "perfect".
I'm tired of people saying that perfection is something to glorify and strive for. Some people are literally broken apart by the expectations of perfection.
Sarina Apr 2013
A decade of trains that lost track
have just turned up in my esophagus,
they are all bile as I am all hands.

This is why I was never frightened by ghosts
and sea specters:

they have been inside of me
the whole time.  

Sometimes, hot coal would hit my cuticles,
I could see the steam.
I could feel something like wheels
spinning a web on my nail-beds;
something sat in me like I were a flowerpot.

All that remained were the sticks
of my skin, blood bubbling from below.

But they have been there
the whole time.
I have been a ship in a bottle,
I have been a conductor without knowing.

Fever outlined my spine with its fingers
and I felt I was being kicked by
a fetus.

I was a hallway for phantoms
that believed they still have their limbs
and if not, quills
or a fish with gills and a fin
or locomotive. Mechanical movement still.

How could I not realize
they were inside of me the whole time,

soaking up the nutrition from my throat
shifting the razor while I shave?
Thousands of train-ghosts
crawled from me by an engine of *****.

Not one knows where they are.
In all my years as professor of Paleontology at Ublique University, I never thought I'd have a bad day. My life was a happy one. I had a car that was payed for. A cold refrigerator, full of food. New & improved gadgets & gizmos. A wife who would rub my back on request. & it all changed when I turned 42.

It was the morning of August 12th when things changed. An orange & cool, slightly windy day. The sun had a warmth that started as soon as I woke up. No heat. Just warmth. I woke up to find nobody at my bedside.

"Bacon." I quietly whispered in excitement.

If Sharon woke up before me that meant breakfast. & that meant coffee. I could use some. The night before, we had a party celebrating my 42nd birthday. A special one I think. Making it to 40 is a feat. Surviving the next year is an accomplishment. But, driving gracefully past 41 into a mature 42 is... smooth.

I stretch & roll out of bed. Squeezing into my slippers I noticed the bedroom is messier than usual. A few things are missing out of my drawers & the rest of my room. The bathroom is missing a few things as well. Soap, washcloths, towels &...

Oh dear, lipstick!

There's a lipstick message on the mirror in elegant cursive. "Goodbye" is all it says & needs to say. Sharon's left & taken my heart & soul with her. & the bacon.
"Alright, time to think." I keep repeating in my head. I'm thinking, but only one thought comes to mind.

"Why?"

Sharon's gone. I get up from the bed. My heart drops to the floor. That's not her handwriting. We've been robbed & she's been taken for ransom.



I sit down for a minute.
No!

Not for ransom!

It's a sicker crime. They only want her. For their own sick, twisted reasons.

"****, what should I do?" the only thing rushing through my body.

Again. Stop it.

I run downstairs into the kitchen. Alright, i have a knife. I'm armed & dangerous. I run into the living room. My blood runs cold. They're still here. ****, ****, ****, ****, ****, ****.

I run back upstairs.

In a flash of white light the scenery changes.

I'm in a hospital.

"How did I get here?" I ask myself. My stomach hurts & my left arm & leg are wound in casts. There's a vibrant red lipstick stained kiss on my left foot with the words, "You knew all along" written in cursive along the bottom of the kiss. Before I can collect my thoughts, a sharp looking doctor walks in.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to run with scissors? Or rather, knives?" he asks.

She did & I musn't have listened. I had a hard time listening. Sharon! She almost slipped my mind.

"Doctor, I need to go home." I semi-ask.

He rebuttals with, "Nope, the wound in your stomach isn't life threatening, but we want to keep you here for a few days."

I bite my tongue ax logic kicks in.

"Okay." I say.

I'm going to escape.

I pull out the IV's in my arm & look for my clothes. Can't find them, so I settle for the guy's down the hall. They're a little loose on me, but the belt fits. The shoes however, do not. ****. How am I going to get past the guards?

Wait, there aren't guards in hospitals. Are there?

No.

Maybe.

No.

Definitely not.

I take the elevator down to the main floor & walk out the front door. It was easier than I thought to escape from a hospital.

I'm outside & no one is chasing me. I hail a cab & realize my wallet is back at the hospital. This whole thing is crazy, I know.

I arrive at home & pay the guy with some of Sharon's jewelry. Looking around, I realize the living room isn't trashed. & only Sharon's purse & shoes are missing downstairs. Maybe she wasn't taken for ransom.

Again, time to sit down & relax. Not relax, but think.

Last night. Something must have happened last night.

Okay, there was a party. It was a surprise party. Ron, Sue, Burgundi, Jon & a few people from the campus were there.

I'm not that guy who hates surprise parties. Or surprises for that matter. They're great. So, I remember walking in the door a spectacular Friday. All my students  wished me a happy birthday.

The house was dead dark when I walked in & then, KABOOM!

The place lit up. "Happy Birthday!" they all shouted & champagne is thrown my way. All was normal there. I talked to everyone. Had cake & opened my presents. My favorite was the pen/pencil combo.

Then I went outside to the backyard, lit a cigar & watched a silvery, grayish cat scurry along our wooden fence. Night had fallen & the moon was half full.

I can't believe I broke my leg, my arm & stabbed myself in the stomach. I walk back upstairs to change.

Wait.

There's no blood on the stairs. & who called 911?

It's quiet in the house. Too quiet. Someone's here. I'm three steps up the stairs, no point in turning around. The bedroom & office are safe. So are the closets. Under the bed as well.

Relax. Change clothes & relax. It's difficult getting into pants now, but I make it happen.

Back downstairs. The living room, kitchen & bathroom are safe. Okay. Either I don't bleed or something strange is going on. Maybe, Sharon came back & saw me.
But she couldn't be that heartless as to leave me in the hospital alone, could she? Oh no! Maybe she didn't come into the house. Maybe, she really has been kidnapped.

I'm staring at my hand. Noticing the deep & fine wrinkles along with my veins & cuticles. My palms look like satellite images of rivers & microscopic views of capillaries. There is a candy bar on the coffee table. I eat it & instantly feel better.

My head swings back & my body warms & tingles. I close my eyes & see my granpa showing me how to measure & cut wood to turn it into something useful. We're making forms for a concrete pathway from the house to the garden. A blooming garden with peas, onions, spinach & okra. I reach my hand to write my name in the wet concrete & a bee stings me. It hurts for a millisecond. Then the pain moves away. My granpa looks at me from in the garden. Then he hunches over to look at something in the ground. My arms goes numb as I walk towards him. I feel something pulling me back.

I look behind me & see myself unraveling. The threads of my shirt & cast are being unwound like thread from a spool. In a few steps, I'm naked. I keep walking as my granpa shouts my name. I see his mouth moving, but can't hear him. My body feels lighter with every step. I look at my bee wound & find that my hand is unraveling along with my arm & the rest of me. Layer by layer I'm being unwound. I'm down to my nervous system, brain & eyeballs when I open them & see my granpa's face. he's smiling. I'm down to my eyes when I start to look at what my granpa sees.

Time slows & my eyeballs unravel,
leaving me in complete & silent darkness.
Tragedy
Audrey Maday Mar 2015
I had long forgotten,
This nervous bumping,
Within my stomach of,
Butterfly wings brushing against,
Hearts, lungs, stomachs.
But he has brought it back,
With the fury of a hurricane,
Sudden, only slightly expected,
But never truly prepared.
Each message is now carefully typed,
Carefully prepared, time decided upon,
Each phone call spent nervously,
Picking at my cuticles until the bleed,
My heart is beating out of my chest,
Every time my phone buzzes.
I forgot for so long,
This giddy revelation,
Of fresh emotions and nervous,
Banter across states.
But, God, oh God,
Am I glad he's brought it back.
Kira Ferguson Jun 2014
A couple becomes comfy...comatose
Their coffins carved carefully
At the cost of the cuticles
That cut the cloth concealing the cause of calumny.
Cut with claws
Claus? Santa has no clue
But the paws with the claws came from Cope,
The coyote cub who clubbed with truth.

Calm,
Palms clasped on Aphrodite's coffee cup
Caffrodite, cups
Cups that carry potential - kinetic, energy,
Crash!
...Chaos conceived carelessly
A ****** tear

This is the C-Section
Confused?
No concern...know care
Because you are capable
Superman,
Cape-able

But soon the caffeine kicks in,
And the common carotid is cooked
Killer
Compare now, casualties to cows...
Not so different
Still, the crowd plays casual
Aloof

So dream of a connection concentrate in a container
And swig
Constrict the fists and relax
To be carried off into the cosmos
Consumed by clouds of gas...

Below are the circus clowns
Coughing, conceiving, creating.
Is it a crime? To be cut off from contemplation?
Akin to Galileo, craniums will roll
While eyes stay still completely

A quiet kiss to the clavicle of our collective cast
Soothes the commotion to
This clamoring performance
A hush to this cacophony
angelwarm Oct 2014
YOU HAVE
TO WANT IT



MAN
“go outside,” the doctor says,
“stand on the grass for fifteen minutes a day.”
you’re here because today you want to get better.
“tell me how you’re feeling.”
“I’m scared.”

“I mean physically.”
“so do I.”




ANGEL
an angel can come in a burst of a blister,
on the tip of a finger.
he always starts small
with the whispers,
         “i know about love,”
   like you asked for it.

he prefers to come at the end of the month,
            amid deadlines, another set of blood-soaked, ruined *******,
some traces
     of the relationship with your father and failure.
but you like that: having an excuse that sends you
   scrambling for car keys.

    at first it’s forests, their fires,
the flowers that follow once the ash and skin and soil
are mixed. at first it’s earth and rubbing it in,
     seeing god behind your eyelids.

so you clean the pipes, keep washing sheets.
      the voices they stop coming; once in a while you
      read online how many kids this week have overdosed
    on ****** and it’s foreign. kids with dirt
under their fingernails, kids in basements, kids
with ***** canvas shoes and overgrown cuticles.
           they don’t look like you. you still look like
you.




MAN
                   mike sparks a j in the basement.
        we chew on xanax and no one’s paying attention to the TV.
some white static and early afternoon rain. it’s made me gone
ghost, sitting on a leather recliner, silent with a cigarette.
              it’s a right of initation to carve your name in mike’s
coffee table and sign on the back wall. this summer I added
   mine alongside the kids I used to get nervous around in high school.
                       his mom comes downstairs with a joint of her own rolled
and a French manicure. her lip liner is too dark for her
lipstick, and phil’s warmly lit and ivan leans so far into the
couch he isn’t human.

mike sits up, “ma,
you know you owe me some money?” he changes the channel.
she laughs throaty, her insides a swamp. she’s
prettier when she’s high like this.
                       “I got your money,” she promises. it gets soft
from there and phil smiles over his body and ivan moves
further into the couch. she touches mike’s hair.

“good kid,” she tells me and I smile up at her. I wish I had
a body but I left it wandering through
the thunderstorm outside. ivan nods his hazy head.
          mike hands her a diet coke and she hands him a fifty and she goes—through the walls—
       phil digs his hand into the couch cushions to find papers. I go
ghost in the seconds it takes him to spark his lighter.

the ghost lights herself a cigarette.
   the ghost lights herself another cigarette.
               the ghost lights herself a cigarette. “are you chain
smoking now,” phil slurs playfully. “yes,” the ghost agrees.
     “are you having fun,” ivan turns to her.
                “yes.”

HUMAN
i don't want to know what love is like i want
                                       air that
                     tastes like apples and
       i want real raw
         brown sugar
       i want to shoot up every
grey second for two weeks— get frantic then
       take benzodiazepine until i shred my
stomach lining, singing
                                                    
            i want bud light and
a backyard. bed time stories and
            white furniture and ritz crackers
             with fancy party cheeses
                              i want to complain about the drinking age,
                              new york’s black-dusty wind charm. complain like the
                              moon is still lonely and not a destination
                                          i want to wake up in the sun spot
                                          i want to wake up to a baby crying
                          soft like mothers do, going to
                                     that dear one to quiet them down,
                                        i can be here to kiss you calm
                                                              i want to get out of bed
                                                              i want to call friends back
so winter can come and i can still
                              go home.



       WANT
         throwing on the rag&bon;; jeans,
         neither rag nor bone more milky skeleton-ized, eyes
         pin headed. faces struck yellow all tops of the heads
         with umbrellas and sorry throats. "here take mine" no
         "you'll get sick" it's fine
                                                        the gothic church with social strangers
                                                       ­ tweakers and nodders all smiley side-
                                                        eye­-Y
                        i know the gimme gimme
                        i know the routine
         and blondie (they think) here she comin she twenty years clean
         blondies a baby she weak as **** she dont know what she got
but i know the "i want" "i want"
         and the ok baby,
         Got U




HUMAN
i dont want to know what love is like,
                  i want to walk the manhattan bridge at sunrise
                  i want
                       grass wisps and capers
                       chicken noodle soup
                       a night at the new york city ballet
                       and pauses in sentences, in breath
                       the breath before a kiss or the breath
                       after it. i want instant hot chocolate
                       and reality television, ugg slippers with
                       faux trim. a bicycle painted lilac with a
                       basket, and clear skin. i want pier 63 on
                       a 70 degree day, the weepies playing
i want to be a ghost
            where ghosts are white sheets with two button eyes
             and make jokes about halloween and their past lives
i want to go there
to street fairs
and watch fireworks and write out names
in fresh concrete patches
                                                     i want to eat blackberries in the bathtub
                                                     i want skin to make me feel safe again
                                   i want to want to live
                                   but i know the "i want" "i want" and the ok baby,
Got U




WANT

they were right,
                               they were all
              going (right
they were righjt
they were right

air hanging eyes to dry
blood pull in push out brown golden push IN
  

they were right they were all right
nothing could ever make me as happy again



WANT

it’s a hold on something so quiet and soft in your hands and no one knows what it is and you dont know what it is. it’s the pin drop in a hospital room and so lemonade refreshing. im in a snowstorm and i cant see the city, cant see past my own two feet. im on a long highway drive and it’s rain that comes in sheets so hard i cant move. i walk and the world writhes underneath me and we put needles in our arms. and we wait for the blood push. and i watch my life go away in warm *******. and i watch it go this way like it’s not me. and i’m going home to ****** and i’m scared, i say outloud to maggie, “i’m scared i’m going to do something stupid,” and she is so quick to say “like what” that i know she knows what it is. and i’m so scared.





WANT

give up on me , I Know where im going. don’t follow. don’t even look for me. keep
Counting sugar cubes and stirring your coffee , it is my wish for you that it always tastes sweet.
I love you












WANT


i just wanted to be kept warm by something that looked like love



MAN
i walk slower on the streets of manhattan; stop at
   the strand, look for the man with eyebrow rings
asking "do you know where a girl in this city could get some relief?"
         he laughs, says he just looks like someone who would know
            that. he asks, "is that Monster Blood?”
                             &nbsp
this will continue to be edited from time to time. it's a long poem i'm working on as a semester project.
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
The best way to reduce cuticles to bone
And forget what dances behind eyelids
Loosed teardrops and wavering dependability
Useless porch light, shameful gas tank
With shadows which count seconds
Stretching over regrowth
A cropped haircut, remembrances of time
MMX
Oct. 21
Anna Vida Aug 2013
Welcome to 5:15am
And I'm so calm
And so prepared
Having changed into pajamas
Out of pajamas
And into a sweater
That I wear too often
Made for men;
Or made for me.

And despite the summer
Despite the desert
Outside is a cold black
Misleading
Considering the thermometer
Reading a cozy 80

Because here, the night coddles you
Like a blanket
And wraps you in something
Anything it can find
And during this hot rainy season
Something sticks to your clothes
To the cuticles of your hair
And you smell like whatever the day
Brought to you.

Welcome to 5:21am
And you haven't been outside yet
But you've changed into pajamas
That don't terribly embarrass you.
And when you finally go outside,,
You'll be getting out of a car
And walking into a hospital
Maybe legs shaking
(I don't know,
You haven't been there yet.)
And you try to calmly wait
While people you don't know
Stick you with things
One of which will knock you out
And you wake up with
Cuts in your body
From taking out the sickness
That's real this time
And tangible
And actually comes from your gut
And actually makes you
Look yourself in the eye
And *****.

It's 5:26am
And the pain is starting again
And the ambivalence of today
Hangs on my hair
And my clothes
Until they put me under
And I really have no option.
bambi Jul 2013
There is a creature rarer than
you dare to dream.

If once it flourished
within your lungs,
savor the eternity,
it left on your tongue.

I have been evaded by
that space between the stars.
It's existence has eluded me,
it's true.

But it thrives in side your mouth
in your cuticles, it blooms
traced 'cross your eyelid
wandering from me to you.

Now I grasp the phantom creature,
I feel it's warmth between my thumbs,
taste the word within me,

because this is us and this is love.
Reposting after some edits.
bobby burns Jan 2014
if i were to bread my tongue
with rocoto and cornmeal
and twist to reach the andean soil
my tastebuds long for so many nights
out of the year
olfaction and your left-sinus blockage
would stay cradled
in broken-baguette bread-crust baskets,
a trebuchet's missile,
naïve to the horn of the world,
and brittled to a carcinogenic crisp
caped in my earthenblood geysers
en el humo, en la tierra del fuego
in(fierno)

i recount by the tally marks of black felt
resorted to in the puddling of spilt tea,
(like broken china, you never missed
a beat to correct potential error

and my memory),
i count them to remember
the epiphanies standing over a red faucet
a gallon water jug, whistling snail-trickle,
wishing away the cracks in the grout
or the grout itself,
wishing away the cracks in the pottery
or porcelain facade of which
you're so fond and grace with singing cuticles

the fingers of a pianist
lacking the wherewithal
and solid brick gall
to answer the ivory's summons

i am not a piece of clay,
i respond poorly to your sculpture of my surface,
covered in oxides and baked in
hell's oven, your mountain fire
scathes me as it does cedar resin
and i am similarly embittered,
pooling sap & draining smoke
in the embers and dead charcoal
of your embrace

avant le corps, sans l'âme
sans le corps, avant l'âme
Danielle Shorr Feb 2015
There are leaves under my feet
The trampoline below us echoes our laughter into space
We are in our cheerleading uniforms jumping and jumping and
There are no boundaries in summer or winter or spring and autumn is our favorite
We **** on the roots of purple flowers because we can
Spend our 12 am sleepover restlessness and pocket change at the 711 down the street then
Sneak out to houses of boys who are too much older
We kiss them with juicy fruit mouths and sour tongues from joints we have just learned to smoke
We sacrifice lit paper to our ****** lips and run when our paranoia starts to catch up with us
The first time we drink, it is from our parents unlocked liquor cabinets, their trust for us more lenient than it should be
We swallow too much ***** mixed with orange pineapple juice and it tastes worse the second time around
We quickly learn to calculate how much is enough to send us spinning without emptying the contents of our stomachs
We stay up too late and too often because
There are too many movies to watch too many songs to hear too many memories to be made
I am 12 13 14 15 16
I am freckles and skinny and bitten cuticles and hot pink nails
I am poorly painted mascara and drugstore lipstick
I am football games and smoking bowls and crying from laughing too hard
I am ****** seasonal job and Halloween party and curved figure and first heartbreak
I am weekend adventure and aimless driving and snorting pills and loving strangers and touching bodies that aren't my own
I am reckless, we are
Too young to understand the consequences of our choices that will soon become mistakes
We make so many I forget to note them all down but
Haley's smile in a candid I use for my photography final freshman year is one I do not throw out
Instead I keep it locked in my mind, sitting against a black panel tucked away in my old bedroom
Hers was where we sat as we planned out our dreams for the future
Outlining our intentions on the ceiling above
Talking about who we wanted to kiss and then ****, we told each other too many details when we did
We wore bras that were too slow for the speed of our growing bodies
And black cat costumes to a party whose only theme was alcohol
We loved and got hurt and ate ice cream but mostly we loved
drinking, boys, smoking, cigarettes, each other
We were each other and still are but time and distance have both left tolls on our former relation
I am no longer the kid who never had a fear of heights
I don't jump as high as I used to when I do
I drink now with too much caution, I only take pills prescribed for me
We live on opposite coasts
And there are no leaves for me to step on where I am
Seasons do not change here and I am stuck on years I cannot forget
In a way we are still too young to understand most of what we don't but we still have time before we need to
It is winter again, then spring, then summer
My dear,
Autumn is approaching with patience and a slow speed
She is still our favorite.
Meredith Ann Jan 2019
When we finally got there,
you said that you had never been.
You are wrong.

Because on one July 22,
we all sat in the harsh light,
excited about the coming week.

You had great colorful plans.
You made me laugh.
I wrote about you.
I didn't know anything then,
but I know now that was the first time you made me smile.

But now as we filter in,
alone and in the dark,
we sat on opposite sides of the couch.

I hardly made eye contact.
I wish I tried to read you.
All I know is that you sat motionlessly,
hands in your lap,
for once kept to yourself as I slowly peeled back my cuticles.

I just remember staring at your sweater,
I thought it was funny how much it looked like mine.

Two months ago I just wanted your arm around me.
Today I wish I didn't squeeze so hard.

I realized that for the first time,
I'm no longer craving your fingers dancing across my spine.
I'm no longer craving you.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
NoMakeUp

Chic lookin' like death,
with her dyed platinum blond hair,
her fake silicone **** and all that make up,
over dressed like Halloween **** girl I'm scared,

the less you wear,
the less impressed I am,
you get dressed up just to get messed up,
smoke a cigarette then get your teeth whitened,

you get done up glam,
just to get run up in,

when,
in the world was it ever okay,
to,
disrespect yourself that way?

Getting fckt by strangers,
without getting money or commitments,
that means you're like a *******,
a ******* that's not even good at business,

you're a despicable disgrace,
to the entire female race,
you wear all that cover-up,
because you've got Krocodil face,
that's Krocodil with a 'K',
better get it straight,
the kind from Russia,
that will eat your face,

eat your whole face off,
face it,
the facts are basic,
real women look way better without any fake make-up.

The only reason you need it,
is because you don't see this,

plus you fill your stomach,
with fast food *****,
you're going down in flames,
what was your name Halley Comet?

Saving money on food,
so you can buy cosmetics,
maybe if you changed your diet,
you wouldn't need cosmetics,

there's nothing romantic,
about cosmetics,
cosmetics cause cancer,
don't you get it?

More vegetables,
less processed cheese,
and your face won't look,
like it's got a disease,

please,

remember these words,

real women look better without any make-up,

without all those name brands we're all naked,

believe whatever  you want to,
but these words will still be true...

So stop dying,
your hair to death,
and trying,
to get the guys to stare at your breast,

you are,
so much more beautiful naturally,
and if you,
go natural well actually,
you might find,
a man who loves your mind,
a man that truly loves you,
for who you are inside.

and I promise this,
in all honestness,

no man will ever fall in love,
with a woman because of the size of her breast,
or the color of her hair,
or the brand of her dress,
no real man will ever really care,
whether your outfit is Versace or Guess,

because good men care about the real you,
not fake fashion brand names,
you are not a cow nor are you cattle,
so why would you want a label branding?

And I promise this,
in all honestness,
that this is,
honest honestness.

Real men fall in love with real women,
because of who they really are,
not who they pretend to be,
real men fall in love with real women,
because they love her soul's avatar,
and her divine femininity…

So let your hair grow,
back out to it's natural color,
if you honestly want,
to find a natural lover,

and save your self,
for those special lovers,
that are truly deserving,
of all of your natural wonders,

leave the fake hair,
for the fakers,
leave the toners,
for the loners,
leave the make up and fake dyes,
for the hookers and transvestites,

you,
are beautiful,
without,
the manicured cuticles,

you are beautiful,
just the way you naturally are,
there's no need to alter yourself,
with some silicone and scars.

Just be beautiful Beautiful,
there is no need to pretend,
and leave the makeup and fake body parts,
for the trannies and mannequins... ∆
From a man to a woman...
#nomakeup
i cant stop sneezing
it took me fifteen minutes to write that
its my birthday but i dont deserve it
i realize myself in sharp bursts
slices between when its all mechanical
closing one eye to type and record it
look at my filthy fingers
scrub cuticles and continue
what abhorrent keys
clean those
(sneeze)
behind me rhythmic tickling
(sneeze)
pirouette
(sneeze)
Kewayne Wadley Dec 2021
The sound of fingers
The string of hearts
Pressed wood hallowed out
Digging, digging
Digging, digging
Breathe in breathe out.
It takes courage
Just to exist.
I've tied my heart to a steel string
And lost them around the cuticles
of your fingers.
Of all the cruel things in life
I am glad that you're not one of them.
I've tuned my lips
& Twisted my hips toward you.
You never once laughed
When I mentioned
I am still learning how to dance
Got Guanxi Feb 2016
I am the key to the lock in your house

You burned a hole in my heart
Where the arteries flow.
And the veins are
blocked
like gutter drains,
No one can pass -
through the Red Sea,
A no go area.
A hairline fracture into a million capillaries,
Split arteries to take each feeling individual to the tips of my skin.
Still covered beautiful
but a nails cuticles,
Impaled on a cross resembling a torso.
Hollow bones that play like xylophones
In the tombs of hidden organs that echo
&
resonate through the decay of a necrophiliacs playground.
Dislocated limbs swing round a rib cage,
Splinters shatter the skin revealing the droplets of blood that pour like rain and tears combined.
Twist past as they gloop through a cutlets spine.
Always on my mind,
always on my mind.
Cobwebs of memories,
Embedded in a decayed gut,
Dug up like skeletons in cemeteries to find the remedy or medicine to plug the bullet shaped holes you made in my heart.
Part of a six piece series I'm considering posting  over the following weeks inspired by the song climbing up the walls by Radiohead - a feeling that never left me.
ebh Jun 2021
oh my darling angel you are the reason i’m still a person with skin
you are the reason i wake up in the morning and smile sometimes
with teeth sometimes without but smile nonetheless//you are the reason i eat
with such gusto because i know you would laugh at the way i wolf down pasta//you are
the reason for the hole in my chest in your absence i collapse like a dying star//you are the reason
i’m trying so hard to be better and//you are the reason i called my therapist’s office and said hi
yes could i please have a listening ear//you are the reason all my cuticles are picked ragged like
so many spiky sea animals warning you not to touch//you are the reason for my writing
the note you left me to write calling me “stinky” still sits on my shelf untouched//you are the reason i’m
insecure about my taste in alcohol//you are the reason i’m not insecure about my laugh anymore//you are the reason that my hair is soft and//you are the reason
i’m shaving my legs again//you are the reason i care about *** at all and//you are the reason it
scares me so ******* much
you are the reason for much of my life as it stands now proud and tall and shaking
like a fawn still wet from her mother’s womb
i kinda like how this turned out, it needs a lot of work but honestly i'm just gonna post drafts on here and see how it goes
Boaz Priestly Sep 2017
----
1. no beauty

was it beautiful?
like sitting at a desk
riddled with indents from
keeping the scissors away from skin
rocking back and forth
with only one thing circling
through an addled mind
the overwhelming urge to die
feeling ready to write that final
chapter on a life barely lived

was it beautiful?
forty pills that seemed like
enough at the time
choked down with soda water
and so many built up tears
feeling the rot of depression
absorbing the medicine that was
supposed to make things better
*******

was it beautiful?
regretting waking up hours later
younger sibling in the next room
noticing the stumble
the swearing that came from
feeling organs clench and shatter
but nothing coming up

was it beautiful?
admitting to taking so many pills
tongue feeling shredded by the words
being asked to stay awake
but only feeling so much anger
at having failed
at waking up again
at still being alive

was it beautiful?
three psych wards
every time a voluntary check in
unable to stay safe
healing scars
bashing limbs against every hard surface
ripping open old wounds
both inside and out
there is nothing beautiful
in self destruction

2. no romance

was it romantic?
hospital beds and an iv
in the back of a shaking hand
monitored bathroom breaks
too many to count while a body
too young to feel so old
purged itself of so many toxins

was it romantic?
fingernails chewed down to nothing
ragged cuticles
raw and ****** knuckles
because those hurt just a little bit less
than constantly pulling open
scabbed over splits in
gnawed on lips

was it romantic?
looking for love to give to others
not leaving enough behind to keep
not caring about that
too busy wanting to go home
please fix this
make the hurt go away
make everything shiny and new again

was it romantic?
unable to find respite
from the mental onslaught
in the unmarred arms of another
because illness and depression
do not care about
kissing scars to heal them
or boxes of chocolate
or roses
or whispered “i love you”s
because life is not a
teen romance novel

was it romantic?
wanting to die
even while sitting next to
that person that made things
not hurt so bad
and feeling guilty about fresh cuts
fresh bruises
burn marks that could be explained
away as accidents

was it romantic?
mass media certainly seems to think so
here’s looking at you
john green and jay asher
because why should people have
struggles if they can’t be candy-coated
and wrapped up in neat little bows
with complementary
packets of tissues on the side

was it romantic?
smelling of blood
and sweat from so many nightmares and terrors
trembling and shaking
racked by guilt and anxiety
waiting for an ulcer
waiting for something to happen
to make it seem worthwhile
because in mental illness and trauma
there is no prince
no princess
no damsel in distress
no disney movie happy ending
there is no romance
in wanting
to constantly die
Zero the Lyric Jan 2013
I

Head, shoulders, bees, and hands.
Stings and wings apart,
From the anatomy of art
Despite the stills and shakes.
Two of twos for many stands.

Though at the fore reside the restless digits
Every thought, they spark and fidget.
The point is impolite, but that widget-
My leg knuckles buckle thinking of the quakes,
It tore through my index like new nectar glands…

II

One for rest the other for tests
And one s for the possibilitie
None are hidden from the complete set
of peering palms

right like the leaves,
left like the breeze.
Like the future
Told with tea.

Where these wrinkles will write their say
While these prints will match their way
Whistling while working; these knuckles will play
Whether it be told or felt- make it chalantly
Waiting with a tale for two in every day

III

I set them
With just enough pressure
To hold a frog for fun
Or to annoy a lame nun
Squeal
Down, the cuticles cry

Chuckle cackle fiddle,
Ruckus rackets and riddles
Are really a lot of fun you should try it.
Simply pry the favored tendon
Over that big red button
Yes yes, the American kanji of dissonance!

Excuse the madness, I refuse the discord.
Sounds do not have to be met with pain,
And fear can avoid disdain...
It’s an odd thing that jesters are paid for.

There is an education…
But there is no degree.
I also, cannot waive its fee.
What I paid was from within me.

IV

I had known a good friend fellow
Who once let out a grand belch bellow
About his crimes of cheese and wine

Toward a beauty so sweet and discreet
Her spinning feet fleeting from new feats
Whereabouts to doubt, still flies more than fine

I said to him “your sense is jagged
and your breath is haggard-”
so he interrupted with one of brine…

The failure is in my nature’s course!
Then my dammed machinations make it worse,
It seems as though who I intended to be

And who I wanted you to see,
Are wholly revealed as two separate scenes.
I must leave your metals unmatched sheen.

Well…As I trust you heard before,
Your bust appears to be a dusty lore
I say, you can’t expect her eyes to wait for rust!

A firm grasp on the glass.
She clasps a diamond overhead.
I pointed out with a wave.
A slam,
     Then rotating prints on his glass.
The hopeless *****,
     At the cheek she turned.
Whilst I drew on a napkin the-
Legendary Ten-Pronged Opposition Foundry.

Of course, those lights would close..
Excuse me, one other blueprint is exposed.
Canvas of humility, lines drawn like, self-drawn pens.

Perhaps three could wring something useful from this science

V

Her plans! her plans!
They dance, they dance!
As my matrix unravels,
The hiding holes disband,
Its light skips through the land.
This heat, though discreet,
Will shoulder like a man!
Torching every grain of sand
In to a castle of glass
Where the magic is as-
Crafts…of her own hands.

This is where she sings, here
Ask for where, and no song is there
The Tale is strained into strands
She sings there,
Now, she sings there


VI

Imagine, the swinging trees
And busy birds between fronds
Of these leaves, of mine, you see?
To ensnare and percuss
With your singing wrist
Yet you persist,
to pant and seethe
in these gauntlets and greaves…

A moronic oxidative process it is,
To be here and be there both.
Now that I see more strings
I would rather design dreams
Than to meddle a mess
Out of the mettle you chose to test.

VII

Why would one bother,
Vex the metal man’s nerves
Of alloy he dare not name

Mecca’s bolts smother
The work his death deserves
So he limps slow shocked by shame.

Reliquary shammed,
In sardonic preserves
Dark like the grace in his dame

Her bolts monogrammed
By her lack of wild game
Blinded by white in her cold

Her arms gently fold
His rebirth now retold
His machinery, untame

These split heart horns rammed
Dancing, a light the lame.
Dreams may anchor another

Inspire the lover,
You musical mother
I know it,
Your arts heal hearts after any worked hurt.

VIII

Until vissictudes
Crash down,
I lay my back on grazed meadows
With only the sky to cast shadows
Spinning clouds
Of those crafts
In their hands.
His  h a n d s  were so beautiful
Rough, like a first-time bikecrash
Manly, bruised, ragged cuticles
Curiously wandering trough
this undressed  f o r e s t
Exploring every part with soft touch
Tryna reach for the appletree
Craving for that fresh taste
When he's giving me  h e a d
on the unmade bed

Slowly   s i n k i n g
further and further into his love
It  h e a t s  me up
My bones become gelatin
His breath becomes my  o x y g e n
Our heartbeat becomes a melody
His maddening eyes watching me ***
Goosebumps appear all over my skin
This feeling is so confusing and ineffable
Yet so   e u p h o r i c   and intense
it can't be explained
We're two lights burning on one candle
Together, we melt
into this burning desire
for  e a c h   o t h e r.
-- WINTER ALLEN JANE
All estuaries flow eastbound, and the subterranean rail tracks keep forcing against the estuaries’ grain and dust foundations perpendicularly to them.*



How can a sane proposition -- a quantification of syntax execution (those squirming cuticles through bonds of regression)— an excessive reflection, reflexive inspection,

Prove its sanity through continued suggestion?



Deductive insurrections stirred in memory,

A rumble, causing sediments to crumble,

Wineglasses balanced atop countertops tumble.

Spilling contents upon the grained wooden, elitists' floors.



"Anesthetic, onsetting tuberculosis in breath patterns,

Gavels ringing on rigged tolling tongs in caverns,

Dark tolerances to Copernican astronomy in shadows,

And the handle grinds as boxcar wheels' flints and steels catch and spark in addled locks," I mumbled from a half-nap.



It was surgery, the smooth procedures on the moving trains,

The gains and plectrums scraped against the brains' spider veins,

To reorganize the sane, to bridge the broken definitions changed,

To prevent arguments' bone structure from fractures and sprains.



"Use gavels against the scalpels, sculpt with their judgment," a corona dream's habitant corrugated.

He pounded the gavel's end against the knife to chisel at the pituitary gland pulsing in his subject,

And her arms flailed like a horse's legs in heat-induced convulsion.
I thought it was done.



The Canson Merue train screamed in the night under earth to Yellowknife to meet Canadian soil as the Heavy Breather pounded his gavel.
Mechanical Kira Nov 2013
The moon asleep in the well under
The surface of the blackwater, four
Stars of steel and a badly done
Impersonation of my-
Self,
Erase and compensate
Repeated his voice from the bottom
Of the glass, you
Were shining
You said it again
In Neverland there’s no more room
For the Lost Boys
And she - the moon in the well - had
Lost her lips, removed
Her cuticles
One after the other, she had
Consumed a few names
From the wings of the doves, there
Was no more vision, no more dreams, it was
A realm of shadows, no
Lament was rising
To the ceiling, blood was coming
Back modulating itself in clots, no
Punches
Only water
A lot of water inside
The well, where the moon asleep used to
Lie
Staring at the sky
The bars
The coins
You were shining, locked outside
Collecting
The smell of iron, the colour of dice
A heart broken in a thousand valuable gems, a small
Horse, fragments of coal, your *******
The moon in the well was drowning, was crying, it
Couldn’t be done,
Here is what.
It couldn’t be done.
First one of a series of four.
This one has been selected by http://uutpoetry.tumblr.com/
Tim Knight May 2013
‘I was too young when I fell for God’, she said
‘I heard you’, I said, ‘I said I could hear you’.

The train was busy, far louder than usual,
and we sat together, fingers wound together. Rough cuticles.

What were we doing so young,
getting married before the eyes of our Son?

Twenty-two and not a thought for the future,
though maybe you’ll be slimmer and I’ll be cuter.

‘I know about you two and your motorbike miles’ I said,
her face turned around, tired. It was Dulux paint-chart red.

‘How did you? Did he? I am sorry’ she said,
‘Oh that’s okay, really it’s fine, not to worry'.

Tube train doors opened and I filed out in no line,
she followed behind, slow. Karma had taken her spine.

‘You could wait to hear my explanation’ she said, tired.
Across the tiled platform floor, I carried on uninspired.

‘It was a stupid weekend away, we took the scenic route. Are we okay?’
Full stop pupils and an open mouth comma, what else could she possibly say?

‘It’s only recent, not all that frequent’ she said,
‘Well who knew that Winter was the season of unfair treatment?’ I yelled.

Reached the escalators and walked out single into the fresh air,
turned left onto the street and went looking for the nearest bar.
from coffeeshoppoems.com
Little sparrows show off their agility,
dancing up and down violin necks.
Pecking staccato notes out of the air.
Making tea and dropping ceramics
behaving clumsily and babbling nonsense
even after they've been told
sit down and be quiet.

Imitation ducks sit squat,
quiet, muddy, decoying
singing water stains,
spitting curses from their bills.
Pulling bed sheets up to their chins,
nesting between the covers.
Very anonymous in their colours,
not a deviation among them.

Cold wax and dry glue
flake off creases and folds.
These lovely imitations,
cuckoo plaster cast knuckles
snowflaking to the ground,
useless with fine motor skills.
Peeling off like dead leaves,
parasitic nest components.

All my fingernails are different lengths,
evolving finches’ beaks
on isolated islands
With scratches on the vinyl of my thumb,
sand beneath my cuticles,
scrapbooks between my fingerprints.
Piano keys team up in groups of two,
sharing sharps and flats.


Filed and polished,
pink budgies dispose of portfolios apathetically,
slamming filing cabinets shut.
Cuttle bones rattling,
mirrors cracking.
Irritable thighs complaining,
they hunker with bad posture,
frowning on their perch.
Squat salient warbles
clamoring sharply down corridors
over whistling loudspeakers.

Poster orioles elbow aside crowds,
bright bones flashing
neon signs
keratin streaked or spotted
for biological attention.
Weaponry painted exciting colours,
friendly hues and enthusiastic tints.
Lies dressed in curiosity,
attracting intrigue.

My heron neck in the air
searches for information,
explanation, observation.
Greedy for projections,
living in the tree tops,
reflected in shop windows,
my skinny anisodactyl talons
for walking on mud,
wading through marsh,
boggy water.

My hands are geese
jabbering back and forth
across my chest.
its very distracting
to have these conversations
going on between palms,
arguing the best way to fold paper cranes,
whether chocolate pudding
should be stirred clockwise or counter.

Take a gander at the world you don't touch because your fingers are too flightly
Cameron Haste Jul 2014
Crystalline gliding.
Clippin' cuticles in cubicles
& itching for a kaleidoscope
dance
with The Phantom
sidling ridged in the ceiling's fold.

Glazed eyes from a friend.
honey crueler.
Polymerization twists coffee sweats with briny tears
& my pores breath the calcification.
Beet red eyes sting like molten hiss
& pollen still buries it's way deep  
into the tree trunk,
Bleeding like a sour calf
just to stroke a
coconut leaf
in the musky village.

I live inside a cantaloupe
so I can't elope with status quo.
Sipping puddles & licking groggy mud spots
so the Queen calls me swamp belly.
She looked like she was carved out of rice.
bitten & frail steps
with gentle linger
teased soft grass
in the concrete canal
where the streets glistened
with mustaches  drenched
in honey brown ale.

His brain is a tickled cauliflower
encased in Papier-mâché,
Lima bean boogers
&
nicotine stained chestnut shells.
Gears torque and crudely animate
his sluggish form and peanut butter
body.
Diabetic eyes,
that bark like a sloth &
lay a thick layer of custard over their
last nerve,
intrigue mine own to stare
into the vague emptiness.
make up your own meaning
Chelsea Spears Aug 2015
Each splash of Pink
leaves my nails so shiny, pretty and polished
Paint lands on my cuticles and compliments my feel
The strong scent of open nail polish  bottles in my room make me feel a little lightheaded
My nails appear so reflective and smooth from this
angle  
I use different colors for different reasons
pink for perfect
I'm in love with Pink, its just such an amazing color
Like that color that says, "Let's go shopping."        
Painted pink cuticles are so hot
I almost forgot that I'm a
tomboy~
brooke Dec 2013
I let you too
far in and like
a brisk wind you
threw                  my                     doors
open and whistled
through the kitchen
nestledbetweenthe
crackswithyourdirty
self and skittered beneath
the dishwasher, in the corners
under doors, but I'm sweeping
you out because I want none of
you beneath my fingernails
none of you locked in the
cuticles of my hair, I will
whitewash the walls of
my heart if I have
to.
(c) Brooke Otto 2013
Michael P Smith Mar 2013
Ode, my grandparents
I wish you all were here
Without your strong guidance
My mind has failed to come clear
It was such a better place
When you all were here with me
I pray you all have glanced down
To see the man I've grown to be
I give you all the praise
You've laid down the foundation
For this plentiful family we have
Scattered across this vast nation
The sacrifice you've made for me
Allows joyful tears to flow
Til this day our family is still close
Entwined in love we endure to grow
With each sweet conjured thought
I think of every great story
My loving parents told me of you
I reminisce of your past glory
You have done everything for me
Just as God has groomed
Without lessons to my parents
My future would've been doomed
Your beautiful faces
Oh! How we resemble
I take in traits from you all
So much so, in glee, I tremble
You mean so much to me
I promise to make you all proud
Despite all of my minor failures
My love for you screams aloud!
I am grateful for your work
From each of you I take heed
A shot at my heart, no broken skin
I bleed for you, and for my seed
Thank you all so very much
From my cuticles to my hair
I love you all dearly
I'll see you when I get there...

©Michael P. Smith
Jade Louise Sep 2015
I remember Grandpa.
Grandpa was the kind of man,
That could tell you one story,
Or ask you one question
And all of a sudden
Everything you ever knew,
Or thought you knew would change

So many times with Grandpa,
From the age two and upwards,
He took me under his wing—much to my mother’s disapproval.
Grandparents aren’t supposed,
To be biased,
Or pick favorites,
But my Grandpa succeeded in getting away with both in the end.

Every summer,
I would spend the long stretch of eight weeks with him
And look back
Wondering where all the time had gone.
Although he never said it,
I always knew he was pleased to see me.
Whenever we pulled up to his ranch,
My sisters would slowly slump down on either side of me,
Slinking away
Until their heads were no longer visible through the car window.
They would sit there.
Pushing back their cuticles
And narrowing their lips into a line so thin
That my mom claimed could only be achieved with practice.
I would have to clumsily climb over my sisters,
Who always took some persuading,
To get out the car,
And then I would squint through the sun’s stretching rays
Until I spotted Grandpa,
Sitting there on the porch
Listening to the radio
With his little dog, Charlie, by his feet.
“Charlie”, I would call.
But Charlie never budged.
Charlie’s loyalties were very clear.
They were to Grandpa
And only Grandpa.

I learned that with Grandpa
You would find answers to the questions
That you didn’t even think to ask.  
Like the time he prodded me with his stick
And told me to stand still
And I stood there, confused.
Grandpa, I AM standing still.
And he chuckled and told me I was still moving
And that no matter
How hard I tried to stand still,
I would still be moving.
It wasn’t until fourth grade,
That his point was proven,
I was moving.
According to my fourth grade science teacher,
The Earth was rotating, spinning
And we were all moving,
At a rate of one thousand miles per hour
Whether we liked it or not.
Apparently just because everything looked still and motionless
Didn’t necessarily mean that it was.

Grandpa had lived and fought through two world wars,
Spent three decades keeping history alive as a teacher
And even outlived his first wife
But he didn’t walk around wounded like you’d expect.
I always felt kind of honored
That I was the one that got so much time with him.

Every where we went,
His golden dog
Was always two steps ahead of us,
Pacing along in a little green jacket.
Grandpa would take me to museums,
Exhibits
And even art galleries,
Despite my initial lack of interest in everything abstract.
I detested art,
Especially abstract art.
It always seemed like an excuse
For lack of skill,
In my opinion.
It was the name given to the paintings
That didn’t deserve any other name.
I never really thought it was fair
That one person could spend hours
Perfecting a painting,
Making it look like something real,
And another person could take five seconds
Splattering some paint across a canvas,
Making it look entirely unreal
And that somehow
They would both end up
Earning the title of “art”.
The latter,
Earning the special title of
“Abstract art”



However, after a visit with Grandpa,
My thoughts on “abstract art”
Became somewhat enlightened.
We visited a specific section of the gallery,
Me reluctantly dragging my feet after him,
And his obedient little dog towards the
“Modern Art” section,
His hands slowly traced over,
The little bumps,
Etched on the information display.

“Before you say anything”,
He told me.
“Just Look”

I stood there,
Staring at the thing.
Look at what?
I thought,
There is nothing to look at.

“Just wait,
Give it a chance”,
He said,
Almost
As if
He’d read my thoughts.

I closed my eyes,
Then quickly opened them.
I waited,
Taking in the chaos of the colors,
The mismatched design,
That made no sense.

Then it popped.
It was slow at first,
Like the colors were taking their time to shift into sense,
But then some lines began to fade
And others became bolder,
And all of a sudden,
Staring right at me,
Was the outline of a very distinctive face.
No one was looking at this painting.
It was one of those paintings,
That everyone politely glanced over,
Feigning hasty appreciation of,
But not actually stopping to look at.
At a first glance,
It was ugly on the eyes,
But if you spent some time on it,
Something better emerged.


It wasn’t,
Until I was ten,
That I finally figured it out –
Grandpa was blind.

I had been angry at first,
Feeling somehow mislead,
As if he had claimed,
To be someone,
He wasn’t.
How had I not noticed?
That
No one ever petted Grandpa’s dog,
That he had never quite looked me directly in the eye,
That his dog was allowed even in art galleries
And that he never drove us anywhere,
We always walked.

Initially,
I had felt small and betrayed ,
For not picking up on such a flaw,
But it was my mother who helped me,
To understand in the end.

My two older sisters,
Had known from a young age,
She said
And they saw him,
As blind,
And despite their warm hearts
And good intentions,
Had never been quite able to see past it.
My mother told me,
It was I
Who saw my grandfather
For the man he was,
Not my sisters.
I realized my anger,
Had all been in vain.
I had not noticed he was blind,
Because in a sense,
He was no more blind,
Than the rest of us.


Sometimes,
I even wonder
If seeing with eyes
Sometimes blinds us,
And limits our vision
Only to the appearance of things,
Only a scratch on the surface,
A quick call of judgment
And that maybe seeing without eyes
Is really what brought Grandpa,
So much closer to reality.

~ JL
LeV3e Nov 2016
Getting nervous, feeling alone in my brittle beige sitting chair.
Biting calloused fingers cause the nails aren't quite fitting there.
Tearing at the layers of tough bunches of skin cells
Cutting cuticles ****** cause the pain is kind of exciting when,
The boredom creeping in your soul leaves you
Desperate for anything that you can control, so
It eats at your digits and carves out your mind.
Until regret overwhelms all of the wasted time.
Danielle Renee Jul 2012
I didn’t want to go in but you convinced me that it was a must.
We live the essence of the shop; we are the year-round tourists.
The aisles were too close and you weren’t enough. My sunburnt
shoulders touched hanging cotton and beads and masks and I tried
on that skimpy sequined top that made me look like a popstar. You
said, ooh la la. You said, say something to me in French [Je ne t’aime
plus.] Then laughed, wandering toward the snow globes. You held
it with such care and I wanted to be kissed in one, one that you held,
precarious, in your goofy hands. With cuticles I always try and
push back, like you with the wisps in my face. But why, your eyes
are the oceanside town and I want to put them in the snow globe
,
you said while watching the fake flakes fall.
February 27, 2012
Waverly Nov 2011
Bleaching
the shirts
stark-white until they hold
your skeleton
like a vice is supposed to.

Feeling pain
and a grip of hope
like biting your fingernails
to the cuticles,
only to see the soft
skin-like crescent underneath your teeth.

Today
in church,
the preacher talked
about God.

God and his ability
to hammer your soul
to it's infinite potential.

Able to hammer you flat
and tired
until he could mould you.

He talked about a clean house,
and I thought about my ***** shirts.

He talked about the pleasure
of the crucifixion,
and I thought about
biting my fingernails too hard
and too often.

— The End —