"eyebrow" poems
My name is Sara, a transgender chick
Wanted a ***** was given a ****
I hide it in knickers of satin and lace
before sitting down to make-up my face,
Next the prosthetics, I'm using two bits.
Stuck to my chest, they'll do as my ****
Now for my legs I'll put on false tan,
I wouldn't do this if I were a man
Alternative nights, a t-girl delights
to sit on her bed and pull on new tights.
I'll put on a dress, a cute one no less.
Then for my shoes, high heels I choose
A sandal style shoe as every girl knows
not only looks cute, they'll show painted toes
A bit of eyeliner, eyebrow definer,
lipstick and blush, I'm now looking lush.
I stand in the mirror all ready to go,
there's only one question I just have to know.
"Does my *** look big in this?"
Poetry by Kaydee.
Dec 18, 2017
Dec 18, 2017 at 4:02 PM UTC
Four old friends
Dead of winter small town
Germany.
Smoke rising from chimneys
From cigarettes, and pipes
From trains riding the rural rails
From city spires
And factories
From airplanes
Airplanes
and Airplanes,
From Airplanes.
Smoke dancing and laughing
Stinging and coughing
Smoke in my hair and jacket
In the pores of my skin
Smoke in my eyes,
Up the hill
And through the woods
Dead of winter
Small town Germany
Four old friends
Walk two by two
Three by one
Four and four.
Walk by the church,
Down the creek,
Up the hills, the hills
And through the woods
Small town
Germany four old friends
Dead of winter
Cigar smoke and beer
Cigarillos in a chain
Smoke from crystalizing breath
And fireworks
Smoke from bonfires
And tailpipes
Smoke from airplanes
Airplanes and airplanes
Smoke from airplanes.
Smoke stains and cigarette burns
Little circles in my jacket
Germany
Four old friends dead of winter
Small town
Smoke tears
Smoke promises
Smoke memories that linger
Like the faint nausea
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
I watch the **** end of your last cigarette
Crumpled and fading
In the ashtray of that Badischer bar
And your eyebrow twitched
The heart-wrenching shiver
Of what-the-hell-has-happened.
And I whispered:
(airplanes)
airplanes and airplanes
I whispered airplanes.
That’s what the hell.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
The snow leopard and the little fox were sound asleep. The leopard curled up around the young fox keeping them both warm in the cold weather. As the sun started to arise the leopard awoke from his slumber. He then softly pat his little young fox apprentice's head, "Wake up little one. A new day awaits us," he said with a smile as he stood on all fours and stretched out his back. The little fox grunted and yawned "It's too early," she whined as she curled up tighter, "The sun isn't even fully up in the sky yet" was her rebuttal to his awakening. The leopard took her by the scruff and softly tossed her into the snow covered field. "Ahhh!~Ooof." The little fox yelled as she tumbled into the snow. "You know what they say, the early bird catches the worm, the early cat catches the bird." The leopard laughed slightly as he spoke, watching the little fox stand up all covered in fresh snow from last nights fall. "Well what's that have to do with me?!?" the fox shouted slightly, being slightly agitated about him tossing her. The leopard smirked as he walked by her and pat her head again, dusting off the snow, "It has everything to do with you, it has everything to do with everyone. It means the sooner you wake the more you can do. The more time you have in the day to do what you want," the leopard exclaimed with pride and excitement in his voice, "Do you ever ask yourself why there is so much left you want to do by the end of the day but just didn't have enough time? Well this helps you get more done. It gives you more time." The little fox tilted her head slightly to he side and looked down a bit, "I guess you are right," she said softly. Not knowing what else to say, she stood up and shook the snow off of herself then rush over to the leopard. "So what lesson will I learn today?" she asked eagerly. The leopard smiled as they started walking, "Didn't you just learn something?" he said as he raised an eyebrow. The little fox giggled softly and started pouncing around him laughing happily and saying "Well yea. But I want to learn more." The leopard laughed and looked to her, "Slow and steady wins the race little one. Slow and steady. we will find something for me to teach you, or for us to learn, as time goes on." he said softly but wisely as they kept walking into the woods, away from the sunrise.
May 11, 2014
May 11, 2014 at 11:12 PM UTC
How deadly is the sight of the flying witch,
she's mighty and flawless, her name is Lynn
elegant and graceful in her broom she'll go,
All of her victims had that exact same thought.
She seizes you with kind words
and for your soul offers you gold.
With her, you enjoy flying,
for you trust you won't fall.
Once in her cave, she speaks with friendly words
she fills your belly and fabricates a loving home,
It's hard to see her as from the underworld
It's hard to see what's about to come.
Before you realize she attempts to take control,
eating the brains of whom you call your own.
She's yelling and screaming, how putrid is her soul.
The witch is evil, but no one cares of what you know.
Now down the stairs she complacently goes,
raises an eyebrow, it's diabolical, it's smug
she then smiles to her husband, a mere puppet of hers
Satan is that woman, the witch who yells.
Dec 28, 2014
Dec 28, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
I can tell by the way you look at me,
one eyebrow cocked upward while
examining my so called perfection.
Completely astonished by my beauty,
the beauty I don't even see in myself.
Peering out of the right corners
of your deep brown eyes
without tilting your head at
even the slightest angle
because you don't want me to know
you still think about me.
But I've noticed you can't look away.
You can't look away
because that may be the last time
you ever see my face.
And the thought of that being
your last chance to catch a glimpse
at my sparkling blue eyes
destroys you.
You just can't look away,
and that's how I know you still love me
(even though you wish you didn't).
Jul 5, 2023
Jul 5, 2023 at 12:18 AM UTC
it's difficult to describe
why your body chooses to spend weekends
alone surrounded
by the slimy tongues and bottled self esteem
take another hit
while your mind explores the chip on his front tooth or the sweat dripping off his eyebrow
your body takes the pounding while it whispers in your ear how little you mean and you tremble at the thought of being handcuffed
you wonder if he remembered your middle name
Francesca
or noticed the way that when you breathe in your collar bone protrudes
ill ring for you
Nov 21, 2014
Nov 21, 2014 at 5:02 PM UTC
I remember the first time you tasted champagne.
As the golden nectar effervesces down your throat, you whispered my name.
I raised an eyebrow and wondered why,
you said, “You’re everything this glass contains.”
They tell me the tale of Dom Pérignon
who said, “I am tasting the stars” after a sip of his own creation.
You’ve always loved me like I tasted of stars,
and I loved you like you put the stars where they belonged.
We made the mixture of magnificence,
until we were twisted too much on the shelves.
Pop, bubble, hiss--- all shaken up
everything we bottled up spilled down until nothing else is left.
I was champagne until I became your problem.
And somewhere in between the lines, we got lost in translation
I didn’t know where to find you, didn’t know how else to meet you halfway,
but there was pain whichever path I take.
I was already walking the track for the exiled, I didn’t realize right away.
Others hide a ring in the glass,
But we put the problem in the champagne, babe.
Soon it will taste differently to you,
All sweet and sparkling—no strings attached like it used to.
But the stars are no longer where they used to be.
Every sip will wash down any trace of me,
until you forget.
But it will forever linger on my lips;
and I’ll always remember it all too well.
Mar 27, 2021
Mar 27, 2021 at 6:23 AM UTC
Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 12:13 PM UTC
You breathed your last breath from the air
in this room;
that threadbare Persian carpet
holds flakes from your skin;
hairs from your head
corkscrew the dented cushions
scattered and idly waiting on the sofa;
bed linen scented with your sweat
the goose down doona that stole
your last warmth;
sleep spit and tears
human moisture that permeates
the acrylic layers of your pillow;
an eyebrow hair wedged in the tweezers;
a clipped nail that flew off
somewhere out of sight;
that new toothbrush used only once;
your flannel and towel still drying out;
the wet press footprint on the bathroom mat;
the talcum powdered slippers
abandoned under the brass bed.
Each moment of everyday
we shed ourselves
shed dead cells and renew -
a cycle of shedding
until the last
shedding of ourselves.
© M.L. Emmett
Aug 6, 2014
Aug 6, 2014 at 7:01 PM UTC
He says he has no secrets,
and I say I have tons,
He looks at me, his eyebrow raised,
and says,"Well let's hear one."
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 11:03 PM UTC
Here at Kinkos
We have a saying, “copies of copies”
You are trained to always ask for a source file
The digital file of the picture the camera took
The negatives of digital cameras
You see because when you print a picture from that file it’s the best it will ever be
Every detail captured in that moment stored in bits and bytes ready
If you make a copy of that picture it will never be as good
And if you make a copy of that copy it’ll be even worse
And if you were to make a copy of the hundredth copy of the ninety ninth copy you might not even recognize the image
Whether it’s a speck of dust on the scanner
Or a crease in the print out
Sun stains from prolonged exposure to the elements
Or simply from time
Copies never look as good as the original
Even if you try and protect them
And even if you were to magically protect that photo from any external forces
The next copy still won’t be the same quality
A scanner can never pick up every detail from the print on the glass
Copies of copies are never the same
Sometimes the printer is calibrated different
Sometimes it’s a heavy magenta day
Sometimes it’s a saturated cyan day
Maybe you touched her face when you handed it over
And now every copy has a feint of your thumb print above her eyebrow
You had him taped to your rearview mirror for a whole year
And now every copy you make has a glare where the tape used to be
It blocks out his heart shaped hands he was making you from the bus window
Folded in your wallet and now all the copies have white spaces where her face was
I mean where the creases were
I’ve heard that when you remember something you are simply remembering the last time you remembered it
Memories of memories
So that after you’ve remembered her a thousand times you’ve forgotten all the details you forgot to remember the time before
So that the more you remember something, the faster you’ll forget
Maybe that’s why we forget exes faster than family
Maybe that’s why we forget the great parts of high school before the painful ones
I remember that you had red hair, that your eyes were kind, that your hands fit my cheek
I remember that you were bad at pool and that it felt like love, and if it wasn’t you’re the only one that knew it
And now I’m wondering after all these years what I’m forgetting to remember
What I forgot to remember last time
What did I forget this time
What won’t I remember next time
Memories of memories
Like copies of copies
Fading over time
If I never wanted to forget the best moments of my life
Should I never remember them
Is the fastest way to forget the bad ones
To remember them often
Dec 17, 2015
Dec 17, 2015 at 11:46 PM UTC
You left me with all these memories
The way you stir your coffee
That eyebrow you would raise
Your quiet confidence
Your understated
Elegant style
Your knowing ways
You had me at hello
And now at goodbye
Always and still you amaze
I'm a better man for loving you
A sadder man for losing you
I'm not going through a phase
Just reminiscing, maybe convincing myself
That I'm gonna be OK
Dreams come in two varieties
Those of tomorrow or the other
For me, for us, there is only the past
Why I dream only of yesterday
I have no choice
It just turned out that way
I can almost touch you at times
But when I try, you turn away
Feb 13, 2017
Feb 13, 2017 at 2:35 PM UTC
"Hey, Charles! I won't be back."
His friend yells out before
Continuing to eat the face off
Of the young Latino he had met.
"Ok! I guess I can get home.. Somehow..."
He mumbles to himself, signaling to the
Bartender that he wanted to order
Something off menu.
He pays no attention to the trans
Woman who sits down beside him.
"I'll have a watermelon sangria, please."
he requests softly, but confidently.
The lady by him chuckles,
"Watermelon? That's odd."
Her voice is rich with flavor,
And humor.
"It is odd. But so am I." He mumbles.
"It seems that way, doesn't it? Well,
at least now I can call you Melon
Rather than ask your name!"
"A rather odd nickname for an odd person."
And so their conversation continued.
It became all the more lively once
'Melon' had had a couple rounds.
Both drunk and desperate, they
Kiss passionately in the gay bar,
Paying no heed to the others
Yelling "Get a room!"
Roaming hands.
Stumbling up stairs.
Drunken giggles.
Broken speech.
"You're so beautiful." He whispers.
Skin against skin,
Burning hot,
Both mad with desire.
Panting.
Groaning.
Moaning.
Ecstasy.
It's late at night.
They manage to call
A taxi, and go home.
Home to Melon's apartment.
The next morning was spent
Drinking ****** Mary's and
Making an account of what
Happened the night before.
That, and more ***
Hot, ****** ***
Passionate, lively
And loving ***
Charles sits up in his bed.
He feels something sticky.
"Oh, that's disgusting!"
****** *** indeed.
He stands up to clean himself
Off in the bathroom, but he
Hears the shower running.
"Did I get laid last night?"
He peeps into the shower
And sees the woman from
His dream. "Eva?" He asks.
"Who else would it be?"
"Why are you in my apartment?"
Charles exclaims. Eva turns and
Raises an eyebrow at him.
"I live here, Melon."
"Since when? We hooked
Up just last night!"
"Darlin', we've been
married for 4 years!"
Apr 15, 2018
Apr 15, 2018 at 12:39 AM UTC
He raises his left eyebrow
when he stares at my face.
Is it seductive or
a pleased and
attracted tic?
To me that eyebrow is perfect.
So is his skin and the way
he hugs me from behind.
I am fulfilled with each touch.
And every word
I hear in his voice
lifts and pleases
my left eyebrow.
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 11, 2013 at 10:22 AM UTC
Profile:
Yuwen Chengdu is the son of Yuwen Huaji, who was a general of the Sui dynasty. He is a warrior of Sui, only secondary to Li Yuanba, who is naturally super powerful. As recorded, he was as tall as ten feet with strong waist and body. In the appearance of golden face, long beard and thick eyebrow, he often hold a weapon as heavy as 350 pounds.
Introduction of ****** makeup:
****** makeup, or Lian Pu, refers to ****** designs for Jing and Chou roles. It originated from daily life experience, describing such changes of expression as white for fear, red for shyness, dark for suntan, and sallow for illness. Most ****** designs attach great importance to the eyes. The ****** designs for the Jing roles are made by painting, powdering and coloring in the basic forms of Zheng Lian (keeping the basic face pattern), San Kuai Wa Lian (three-section face) and Sui Lian (fragmentary face). These types are widely used to represent generals, officials, heroes, gods and ghosts. The Chou actors can be recognized by the patch of white in various shapes painted around the eyes and nose. Sometimes these patches are outlined in black, hence the term Xiao Hua Lian (partly painted face). The Chou roles fall into the following two categories: Wen Chou and Wu Chou.
Features:
****** makeup bears three main characteristics. Firstly, it is the unity and contradiction of beauty and ugliness. Secondly, it is closely related to the personality of the characters. Lastly, the patterns are stylized.
Beijing opera is one of the most popular drama widely welcomed and loved, no matter home and abroad. It is now acknowledged as a sign of Chinese traditional culture. The photos of ****** mask can be found on large buildings, product packages, various porcelains and clothes. It has gone beyond the stage, from which we can see the deep influence of ****** makeup. More and more foreigners have interest in it and begin to explore the secret of ****** makeup.
http://www.toywill.com
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 3:02 AM UTC
I pull into my driveway and
my neighbor is standing in
front of his door wearing a
wife beater and basketball shorts
that go to his mid calf with
his bare feet shoved into
slides that are too small
and he's owned since 2005.
nearly every part of him is
large, except he's 5'7:
his beer belly protrudes
from his ribbed cotton shirt
his his ego escapes from
his perpetually messy house
(his door is wide open, all the
cold air is escaping, it smells like
cigarettes and being ******* over it).
he watches me park
his woman (I have to set this picture, there is no better term)
stands up straight at right
underneath his eyebrow
and glares at me in unison
I let my hand trace the chair sitting
on my front porch for a few seconds
and wonder why I’ve never sat here before,
residue rain falls from the outside banister
and I feel as at home as I’ve ever felt in this
stupid god forsaken piece of **** apartment
my neighbors are still watching me and
I realize it’s because they don’t recognize me
because I'm really never here
with the hair on my arms all
standing up in unison
I unlock my door and step inside
drop my money and count my keys
my knees are rusty, I feel small
there’s only so many times you can do this
and only so many times I can too
Sep 19, 2018
Sep 19, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
Curiosity is a silver eyebrow,
Raising itself to question the world.
It stands upon being asked something,
Curiosity is an eyebrow being curled.
Curiosity is made of silver hairs,
Of the aged people of this life.
Living longer than the vibrant colors,
That haven't yet faced struggles or strife.
For curiosity is a silver eyebrow,
A feeling making the world unfurled,
an aged question wondering why,
We do what we do in this world.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 12:29 PM UTC
Life is like a melody
Strumming to a love song
He who always smiles gently
Begins to hum along.
Sitting at one corner
She looks at him shyly
He sings his heart to her
Someone he loves dearly.
Coffee is their favorite
To share with each other
One in each episode
Of their love story together.
He strums while waiting there
Brown teddy bear by his side
Flowers placed everywhere
For proposal to his future bride.
He nervously make his vow
Asks for her hand in marriage
She kisses him on his eyebrow
Crowd cheers as they embrace.
©joieyin
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 11:37 AM UTC
Every Time I talk
She greets me with a raised eyebrow.
Whenver I tease
She frowns with her right eyebrow.
I never knew
A raised eyebrow could hold so much meaning.
Whenver u raise
Your right eyebrow,
It feels like a touch ,
It feels like a hug,
It feels like a kiss.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
Sometimes I trust my instinct,
but it tells me to do things in ways
that no one dares
It can implore me there,
to take paths no one walks
I fear the fresh footsteps I make
on the new brick road
I'm a social animal, a human;
doing what others do seems the right
thing to do
Once you're a bit different, society condemns
They raise an eyebrow, they don't give
their consent;
But I've seen great people do great things
Because they had faith in their instincts.
They have the drive to keep going,
To try and even fail.
I'd very much like to do the same,
At least I have real
control over my own doings.
If I succeed, I have only my instincts to celebrate.
If I fail, I have only my flaws to blame.
Everything under my possession,
Ne te quaesiveris extra, as they say
It's your life to do, your life to bear.
Nov 30, 2018
Nov 30, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
there's no rip cord --
your stuck in this stinking shell,
success measured by inches,
lipstick badged for lions,
punchlines thrown like lettuce
at the bravo males,
there's no rip cord --
the evaluation preemptive,
a crooked eyebrow and a sigh
with the lights on,
a slow grind of inadequacy
leading to a clumsy spew,
there's no rip cord --
so most bludgeon bashful cheeks
with wedding bands --
a life locked in rolling pupil sheets,
a kid, a fence, a lawyer, and
an itchy trigger finger
stirred and served with
a green olive.
Mar 4, 2011
Mar 4, 2011 at 2:52 PM UTC
mind stands solemnly in the middle,
with logic and emotion on either side
like devoted sentinels guarding a queen.
"don't think about it,"
emotion says, batting her long lashes.
"just do what feels right
and follow your heart."
"but sometimes,"
logic interjects with his sharp eyebrow cocked,
"what feels right will
hurt us in the long run."
"do you want to try, and know, and fail?"
emotion asks with suprisingly honest conviction.
"or do you want to spend the rest of your
life wondering what could have been?"
"would you rather open your heart,"
logic counters thoughtfully and quickly,
"and have a part of it stolen?
or would you rather protect it all?"
as mind wavers in the middle,
she feels herself rip in two.
half of herself stands upright,
stiffly held under logic's watchful eye.
the other half melts into emotion's warm embrace.
her heart aches and she feels sick.
the idea of following logic's advice
would mean to ignore emotion's advice--
and to follow emotion's advice would
mean ignoring the advice of logic.
she looks back and forth pleadingly.
logic's cadaverous stare seems to tell
mind that only logic will solve this problem.
but emotion smiles softly, and her eyes say
that this way, though it may cause pain,
will be the most rewarding.
"neither choice is the right one,"
mind says finally,
with a little bit of logic and
a little bit of emotion.
"but i must choose now, for soon i will
not be able to make a choice at all.
"then whose advice will you follow?"
emotion questions carefully.
"will you open your heart to love?"
"or will you listen to me and protect
yourself from unnecessary pain?"
logic asks, eyebrow cocked again.
"perhaps you are correct, logic,
and i would do well to seal off my
heart and never let anybody in."
at these words, logic smirks knowingly,
but mind continues anyway.
"as for me, i think i would rather
feel true, burning love and have to
live with the scars than to be
lonely, bitter, angry, and old
and die without ever knowing
how to love myself and somebody else."
emotion does not gloat;
she simply nods softly,
encouraging mind to continue.
"after all, is life not a journey of risks?
how could we ever find peace and
contentment without enduring a
few bad decisions and learning from them?"
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 3:16 AM UTC
her favorite color is blue
her hair is blonde.
her lips are blue.
so are her fingers.
her nails are silver.
her heart is cold.
it’s winter here.
below freezing at this point.
blue.
the snow is a blue-white,
its untouchable.
cold, to the point where it hurts
she is blue.
she is dead.
blue
blue
blue
blue.
she was pale.
like a ghost.
maybe she was one.
pale.
blue.
she was smiling at me.
her lips were blue.
dark
blue.
her silver fingers
tapped along the
desk.
she had a blue pen.
uncapped, poised to write.
blue ink flowed out;
the pen broke,
ink spilling on her hands.
she didn't mind.
she told me she liked
blue.
she is dead.
she didn’t clean it up.
blue everywhere.
i went over to help her
she didn't know me.
she smiled, her lips blue.
dark
blue.
i smiled back.
i handed her a towel;
she cleaned.
the teacher wasn’t looking.
her hair was long,
cascading.
the ends of it,
blue.
her silver nails touch my
hands in thanks.
i went back to
my seat.
my friend looked at me.
i looked back.
he looked at the blue girl,
towel still in her hands.
he raised an eyebrow at me;
i shake my head.
blue girl stares at her pen,
broken in half,
the insides spilling out,
slowly then all of it gone,
wiped away like
it
wasn’t
there in the first place.
blue still on her mind.
we kissed.
it was after school.
i was standing outside,
and she came up to me.
to say thank you.
for helping her.
she was pretty.
her hair was pretty.
she was pretty.
she smiled,
i smiled back,
she stepped closer,
her blue dress blowing in the
wind.
it was spring
she was
alive.
and breathing.
blue.
i saw lots of blue.
her lips were blue.
dark blue,
and touched mine.
blue on pink,
silver on clear.
she pulled away
first.
smiled at me.
walked away.
blue lipstick on my lips
still.
i liked her.
her blue lips and
silver fingers.
they were part of her.
she was pretty.
my friend slapped me on the back
for getting
a kiss from her.
like it was a competition.
but it wasn’t.
he wouldn’t have been able to
handle her anyways.
she’s her own person,
an enigma of her own.
a didn’t understand
her myself.
she was beautiful.
she was alive.
i didn’t see her again
until the weekend.
she was covered in blue paint
in the paint store.
i needed to repaint
my room.
she offered to help.
she’s in my house,
in my room,
we’re alone
together.
i wonder if
she’ll
kiss me again.
she did kiss me.
when i touched her silver fingers,
she looked at me
and kissed me
again.
i didn’t pull away.
she pressed me
against my
wall,
blue paint on my
back,
on her hands,
in my hair.
i looked at her,
she looked at me.
we kissed again.
her hands on my shoulders,
she was a pretty
blue girl,
in my room.
she was warm.
she liked my name.
i liked hers.
i liked her.
a lot.
it was summer.
she was still
alive,
even prettier.
her hair was still blonde,
still silver.
she got a tan.
she knows me.
i know her.
i love her.
she doesn’t know.
i met her mom,
she’s also blue.
she met my family,
she loves them.
its fall,
her tan is gone,
back to
blue,
dark blue.
she said she loves me
i say i love her,
it’s winter and she is
dead.
i visit her grave,
buy her while flowers and
paint them
blue-dark-blue so
she’ll like
them.
i tell her i love
her,
that I’ll see
her soon.
i buy pink and
white flowers,
paint the white
blue.
pink for me,
blue for her.
she is dead, but
she is still
alive.
and blue.
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
All these silly stupid
little trees
dripping wet with
awkward leaves,
while I drip with
smoke & write my
loneliness with
eyebrow pencils,
idle in my idiocy
& thinking of nothing
else but thee,
a banquet for the bony
dancing boldly in the
silence,
made up with
pale make-up &
trafficking in tall
tales,
all these stupid
ugly little people,
they taste like disease,
but even in a crowd
all I see is thee.
Sep 2, 2014
Sep 2, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
We were laughing and smiling and joking around
I saw something snap
like a twig in your mind
I thought you were kidding
when you called me a *****
so I jokingly told you
to go **** yourself
before i could move
your fist collided with my temple
my face hit the dresser
before i hit the floor
I screamed what the **** is wrong with you
and you landed another punch
this time to my lip making
crimson flow from two places
my eyebrow and my lip
a bruise formed around my eye as i started to cry
i should of left then
before you started begged for forgiveness
Jan 31, 2016
Jan 31, 2016 at 1:01 AM UTC