"discolouration" poems - Hello Poetry

I saw my mother for the last time The mortician whispered in a silent voice I'm aware your mother didn't wear much makeup, but we had to put some on her as she had some discolouration." I walked through the slightly opened door Across the room was a light brown casket Roses as red as the breast of a robin surrounded you I couldn't seem to get my feet to move My feet cemented to the ground All your artifacts lay around you Step By painful step I made my way over to you I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes My orchid hearts petals fell slowly to the pit of my stomach My mom didn't look like my mom Not with that makeup But they put it on you to cover the discolouration, the discoloration of the carbon monoxide that corrupted you beautiful mind, or maybe it was the demons that had haunted you for so long When my tears began to overflow my red eyelids I could have sworn I saw you breathing My mom is gone My mom is gone I kept repeating over and over

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Nov 30, 2014

Nov 30, 2014 at 12:12 AM UTC

Earthchild

Rose

I saw my mother for the last time The mortician whispered in a silent voice I'm aware your mother didn't wear much makeup, but we had to put some on her as she had some discolouration." I walked through the slightly opened door Across the room was a light brown casket Roses as red as the breast of a robin surrounded you I couldn't seem to get my feet to move My feet cemented to the ground All your artifacts lay around you Step By painful step I made my way over to you I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes My orchid hearts petals fell slowly to the pit of my stomach My mom didn't look like my mom Not with that makeup But they put it on you to cover the discolouration, the discoloration of the carbon monoxide that corrupted you beautiful mind, or maybe it was the demons that had haunted you for so long When my tears began to overflow my red eyelids I could have sworn I saw you breathing My mom is gone My mom is gone I kept repeating over and over

20

I no longer burn in places that scathed so easily. My body has erased every trace of me laying waste to space. I am trying not to write meaningless things, the way I have in the past but I have become a stain on shirts, a spot of discolouration on skins. You see me as a Rorschach test but I am only spilled ink that means something out of sheer coincidence. I no longer trust the little pulses sitting in my brittle wrists. I no longer believe it is tangled to something greater

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Aug 12, 2014

Aug 12, 2014 at 11:18 AM UTC

eidolonz

I no longer burn

I no longer burn in places that scathed so easily. My body has erased every trace of me laying waste to space. I am trying not to write meaningless things, the way I have in the past but I have become a stain on shirts, a spot of discolouration on skins. You see me as a Rorschach test but I am only spilled ink that means something out of sheer coincidence. I no longer trust the little pulses sitting in my brittle wrists. I no longer believe it is tangled to something greater

22

I have taken back my life so much that the flowers have died they lay lifeless on the counter the same way i did as they bloomed Is it selfish that I really don't mind the way they droop The longing they carry or the dark discolouration of petals holding the open hands outstretched by life itself Goodbye flowers it's been real

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Mar 10, 2019

Mar 10, 2019 at 10:34 PM UTC

caitlinroseellis

Goodbye Flowers

I have taken back my life so much that the flowers have died they lay lifeless on the counter the same way i did as they bloomed Is it selfish that I really don't mind the way they droop The longing they carry or the dark discolouration of petals holding the open hands outstretched by life itself Goodbye flowers it's been real

13

she asks what's for dinner, already planning what she will eat. it's not that she's hungry, but to the point where she is thinking of what she can eat and not feel guilty. it's not that she isn't hungry, but she guilts herself after eating. she could of eaten less, something healthier, nothing at all. she counts the pounds alongside the tears, curses her body for being seventy percent water, curses her curves, curses the stretch marks, that discolouration on her skin. she pinches her cheeks, pulls at her shirt. the fact that her t-shirt hangs off of her is for her own comfort. she's tried being comfortable with her body, but at all instances she is hyper aware of what she's wearing, where it's positioned, what she's doing, how she's sitting. her stomach hurts at the end of the day from holding it all in, from keeping herself from expanding, filling the space, shrinking back from the eye, and crossing her fingers, hoping she's not surpassing two-thirteen. people tell her she's the right size for her body type, but it isn't good enough. she's tall, but she's still pudgy. she hated her prom pictures. she hated her yearbook photo, she's afraid for her senior photos she's trying to lose weight for. but weight doesn't just fall like an apple off a tree, it takes time and time is what she doesn't have, and the depression from the world and over herself makes her too tired to do anything more, and it's a vicious cycle she keeps swirling through. |m.s.

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Nov 24, 2014

Nov 24, 2014 at 7:38 PM UTC

mjsheppard

she feels fat

she asks what's for dinner, already planning what she will eat. it's not that she's hungry, but to the point where she is thinking of what she can eat and not feel guilty. it's not that she isn't hungry, but she guilts herself after eating. she could of eaten less, something healthier, nothing at all. she counts the pounds alongside the tears, curses her body for being seventy percent water, curses her curves, curses the stretch marks, that discolouration on her skin. she pinches her cheeks, pulls at her shirt. the fact that her t-shirt hangs off of her is for her own comfort. she's tried being comfortable with her body, but at all instances she is hyper aware of what she's wearing, where it's positioned, what she's doing, how she's sitting. her stomach hurts at the end of the day from holding it all in, from keeping herself from expanding, filling the space, shrinking back from the eye, and crossing her fingers, hoping she's not surpassing two-thirteen. people tell her she's the right size for her body type, but it isn't good enough. she's tall, but she's still pudgy. she hated her prom pictures. she hated her yearbook photo, she's afraid for her senior photos she's trying to lose weight for. but weight doesn't just fall like an apple off a tree, it takes time and time is what she doesn't have, and the depression from the world and over herself makes her too tired to do anything more, and it's a vicious cycle she keeps swirling through. |m.s.

2

She was a skeleton inside a snakeskin canvas; the smoothest of hands to hold it’s madness. She punctured the cliffs edge but she wouldn’t meet the venom; too dull, too grey, pull at the tendons and never see heaven. Did the momentum fade with the rain, was the rain golden? Was it frigid, did everything stand still or was it fallen? The more I reap the details in which mystery was apposed the more I sew the waves with my narrative and dizzy words. I picture a youth in my arms; squirmed in me and yanked out. I’m too much of a charcoal cloud, raw, cold yet loud. Maybe it’s me above the harbour, I’m curdling on the brink like pale suns in vintage skies; there’s nothing else to live for. She bathes below the faucet of the sea and takes in discolouration. When the windscreen wipers stop, breathing stops in full acceleration.

0

Apr 14, 2021

Apr 14, 2021 at 7:21 AM UTC

christinael

Windscreen wipers

She was a skeleton inside a snakeskin canvas; the smoothest of hands to hold it’s madness. She punctured the cliffs edge but she wouldn’t meet the venom; too dull, too grey, pull at the tendons and never see heaven. Did the momentum fade with the rain, was the rain golden? Was it frigid, did everything stand still or was it fallen? The more I reap the details in which mystery was apposed the more I sew the waves with my narrative and dizzy words. I picture a youth in my arms; squirmed in me and yanked out. I’m too much of a charcoal cloud, raw, cold yet loud. Maybe it’s me above the harbour, I’m curdling on the brink like pale suns in vintage skies; there’s nothing else to live for. She bathes below the faucet of the sea and takes in discolouration. When the windscreen wipers stop, breathing stops in full acceleration.

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