"fashions" poems
One must be brave to live through
a day. What remains
is nothing but the pleasure of longing—very precious.
Longing
purifies as does flying, strengthens as does an effort,
it fashions the soul
as work
fashions the belly.
It is like an athlete, like a runner
who will never
stop running. And this
gives him endurance.
Longing
is nourishing for the strong.
It is like a window
on a high tower, through which
blows the wind of strength.
Longing,
Virginity of happiness.
11k
the other day
I occupied a chair
at a sidewalk café
watching the vanity fair of the quotidian
float by in quickly changing apparitions
an endless flow of different ages, nations, fashions,
skin colors, miens, ****** expressions, postures & gaits
kept passing through my field of vision
it made me wonder why
some people get so furious
when they just hear about
not even meet
the ‘others’ different from themselves
that they start dropping bombs and shooting rockets
I think they rather should be curious
and eager to discover
how the immense variety of humankind
can help expand a locally grown mind
and recognize
that we are all of the same kind
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 5:20 PM UTC
Large and wide
Deep and Cool
Filled with the purest water inside
It was our village's hallmark pool..
Stone lined walls on all sides
WIth steps going down to the water
And stones for washing clothes
Which also doubled for scrubbing our feet..
Live with fish and water snakes
Who were friends with us kids,
Frogs who would sing chorus during the rains
and ferns green and bright on the walls.
With overhanging trees on the banks
We came running and dived into the water
somersaulted and torpedoed
and swam in all fashions and styles...
Swimming and diving from the banks
We played "catch me if you can"
from the time we are back from schools
Till it is dark and when calls come from our homes.
With swollen finger tips
and red eyes, but
After the long swim and bath
Having dinner right away and
slipping into a good night's sleep...
Days where there were no TVs to watch
Days where there no homeworks to be done
Days where what mattered most were friends
Days which take us to the sweet childhood..
Gone is the pride of our village
there are no kids who play in the water
For there is no water in the pond
except for a few months during the rains
Kids are no longer kids
They have TV to watch
Phone and computers to play
Virtual friends to play with
Lucky we were
to have such beautiful childhoods
Such memorable friendships
Such adventurous rainy seasons
....
Jul 2, 2015
Jul 2, 2015 at 4:52 AM UTC
The Sight of Black Stockings on Pale white Legs
Framing and showing off the Thigh, That Begs
Softly to be touched, in gentle Admiration
Women in Silk, Lace, and Satin for Excitation
Camisoles of Lace, Garters and Penoirs
Corsets Laced up, and Short Babydolls
*Lace Demi Cup Bras, with ******* Adorned*
Without the Pleasure of this, life is Forlorn
*There is a Certain ****** Passion*
For these Fine Lingerie Fashions
Lust and Loved for Centuries
*It Brings forth ***** Sensuality*
Curve and Crevices tease the Eyes
Releasing ever Passionete Sighs
Until Entwined they Finally Find
The unyeildings of Motions Devine
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Mar 18, 2015
Mar 18, 2015 at 7:00 PM UTC
Sunday:
Ant Pills
Bear Traps
Cobra Feet
Monday:
Dolphin Lungs
Eel Soup
Frog Limbs
Tuesday:
Gecko Suits
Horse Pie
Inchworm ***
Wednesday:
Jaguar Barbed
Koala Beer
Lynx Lynch
Thursday:
Monkey Chips
Narwhal Fashions
Otter Drugs
Friday:
Porcupine Rehab
Quail Map
Roadrunner Piano
Saturday:
Slug Party
Turkey Slop
Urchin See
Sunday:
Vulture Guns
Walrus Tongues
X No
Monday:
Yellowjacket Fever
Zebra Clowns
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 9:08 PM UTC
Perhaps I will become a waxing fiend.
A perpetrator of the nerves within my legs
In order to reach the imaginary beauty
that society has ingrained into my open mind.
Yet how can I ever fulfil this growing hole inside
Urging, commanding that I shall not be beautiful
Without Revlon mascara and tinted eyebrows,
That my diet must consist of a celery stick a day
And I must have a new wardrobe every week
- to keep in with the highest of fashions.
Do men really care if I'm wearing Gucci or Prada?
Would my restricted diet and devotion to thinspiration blogs impress them?
Has society really just given up on the love of personality,
the good old fashioned 'inner beauty'?
May 13, 2012
May 13, 2012 at 2:19 AM UTC
Each day I watch the ocean swell
Sometimes with hope, sometimes despair;
The ocean's faces ever change
Like the fashions of their hair:
Monday:
Like a waterfall of brown
Through golden culverts flowing--
Sweeps me far away downstream,
Without her ever knowing.
Tuesday:
Rippled clouds at sunrise,
Supple, damp and red,
Combed out, twisted in a braid,
Or just left loose instead.
Wednesday:
Of her black hair a single strand
Sweeter than Midnight's darkest land;
When it lightens up again,
Its sunrise on a beach of sand.
Thursday:
Like golden floss on top of corn,
Silky, curly, fine,
Rising from a thick, black band
Above blue eyes that shine.
Friday:
Whipped up like a hot souffle,
Luxurious, soft, held loose
With ribbons, combs and perfume,
Tempting like a mousse.
Saturday:
Her pony tail we follow,
Like the Christmas star;
Maybe we're not wise men,
But then, maybe we are.
Sunday:
Her hair flew up out the vent
Like a flame,
When we hit an unmarked bump
(Not big).
The top slid shut,
And her hair almost caught,
So I reached up
And pulled it in quick.
May 29, 2017
May 29, 2017 at 11:28 AM UTC
Under the tree of the university
A shadow was gruesomely cast.
The branches made too much shade
And there grew no grass.
No one would lie under its wood
Down beside its trunk;
It wasn't essential, there was no potential,
Claimed the revered monk
But late at night you'll find him lying in the dirt
Wearing a Paisley Poplin Shirt
The click of the gears define his years,
A cycle on a chain
A cloud of sand thrown by his own hand
Hones forth his pain
He blows seeds of dandelion weeds
****** a ****** field
And he pretends that he intends
To reap this horrible yield
Because unintentionally he subconsciously convert
To one who wears a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Covered in rust, a blade he adjusts,
His mind remains unwrung
The words to speak were too **** bleak
So he cuts off his tongue
He'll be finished when he's diminished
These humanly sights
If there's no vision at the end of his mission
He'll gouge out his eyes
And Helen Keller takes one of her old ragged skirts
And fashions him a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Why must we be obsessed
With the unseen
When we know we cannot
Make something out of nothing
And to those of you who think that you cannot be hurt
Stones go thru a Paisley Poplin Shirt
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 2:49 AM UTC
I was fit and feisty at fifty
It was no big deal,
Because that's how half a century
Is supposed to feel.
In my sixties I'll take stock
Start making great plans,
Ignoring all the "you cant's"
And embracing all the "I cans".
Can I be **** at sixty?
And try all the fashions and fads,
Wear stockings and suspenders
And Joan Collins shoulder pads.
I can deal with **** at sixty
And wear Vivienne Westwood clothes,
Dress up and go out on the town
Wearing all my buttons and bows.
I'mgoing to be **** at sixty
I'll wear Gok Wan lingerie
Find myself a Toy Boy
Then maybe lead him astray.
Swift and **** at sixty
When I get my Jimmy Choos,
Dancing the night away
To the sound of rhythm and blues.
Oh! I want to be **** at sixty
'cause age is a state of mind,
I'm preparing my body at keep fit
So as not to be left behind.
But, first I have to deal with
Old Skin, Bad Teeth and Grey Hair,
Then remove the unwanted growths
From just about everywhere.
Then I'll definitely be **** at sixty
And undoubtedly done it all,
The only problem is that most
of it I simply won't recall...
© Hazel
Aug 5, 2012
Aug 5, 2012 at 3:05 PM UTC
274
The only Ghost I ever saw
Was dressed in Mechlin—so—
He wore no sandal on his foot—
And stepped like flakes of snow—
His Gait—was soundless, like the Bird—
But rapid—like the Roe—
His fashions, quaint, Mosaic—
Or haply, Mistletoe—
His conversation—seldom—
His laughter, like the Breeze—
That dies away in Dimples
Among the pensive Trees—
Our interview—was transient—
Of me, himself was shy—
And God forbid I look behind—
Since that appalling Day!
4.1k
#*Hello, HP Fashion Designers
The latest
Where I find
Brand new designs
New fashions
Styles
Colour of the soul and rhymes
Amazing lines
The Homepage
The
Classics
Vintages
All Renowned
Designs
Evergreen styles
One is sure to find
The Front page
The designs that make trends
Latest
Classic
Vintage
Could be any
Liked and Loved
No ends
Followed by many
All In Vogue
Perfect designs
The HP Trends
Love all styles
Trends or not
Certainly, check them all
The HP designs
Creativity a zest
At its best
Never put it to rest*
Happy World Poetry Day#
Mar 21, 2018
Mar 21, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
380
There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—
And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—
Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—
She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—
Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—
And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—
Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—
The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—
4k
imagine a big dragon
Are you doing it?
"ye"
what color is it?
"b-blue and yellow"
Blue and yellow. Cute! Isss it big as godzilla?
"no, it's smaller
likee the size of a horse"
Dats a smol dragon
I like him.
"its not smallllllllllll
a smol dragon would be like, a neck dragon
hes big, just not hugeeeeeee"
Ohhhh okay. He's a big dragon, but not huge.
His teeth are like little point pearls
do you see how shiny they are?
and pink
"why are his teeth pink"
They are pearls.
"but pearls are white"
then his toofers are white.
"gooood
good hygeine"
Mhmm
One of those pearls in his dragon maw
his little baby toofeers
thats you
"why?"
because than you can fly with him everywhere.
Just imagine looking down through his mouth at the cityyy
as he flyyyys
and sitting all nestled in his lip
Blue and yellow leather
He could sing you storiessss and brushes his toofers so his breath would be warm but not stinky
"gooooooooooooooooooood!
awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwhhhhhhhhh :3"
"My small tenant" He says to you.
as you crawl out of his gum and walk out onto his tongue.
What is your dragon houses name?
"his name is roxy"
He's making a very silly face, sticking his tongue out and crossing his eyes to talk to you
he sounds silly too
talking with his tongue out
"Welcome Home. "
"i loveeeeee"
Roxy the Blue and yellow Horse sized Dragon House.
"Ready to slide?"
he asks you
"alwayyyyyyyyyyys"
he swallows you
it's very slippery and fun!
like a water slide
And is warm, but not smelly becaus he brushes his teeth
you fly over muscles and liquids and tongue and land on a biiiig trampoline
You can hear Roxy from all around you, quite loud "Having fun, my tennant?"
You are the small size, or a dragons tooth.
"good :3"
"uh oh!" He cries
you see fire from his back
it's zooming towards you!
"nooooooooooo run awaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyy"
You run up towards his tongue and trip into the sticky icky
The fire is warm and tingles oup your back
then is over
and you standup, the back of your clothes all burnt off and your front all sticky icky
"I'm sorry, tennant"
"I sneezed"
"its oki roxy."
Roxy fashions their tongue like a staircase for you to come back outside
"daddy? Im sleepy... Can we finish the story tomorrow night?"
me too Babygurl. ^^
Yes we can
"yay!!!!!!!"
Good night
"ninighht daddy. sleeeepppppp well.
i love you"
I love you too baby girl ^^
Sweet dreams.
You curl up in roxys empty tooth spot, he covers you in his blanket tongue. it is warm. but not stinky. and you drift soft to sleep
"Good night, Tenant"
"I love you"
"i love you ttooo roxy."
Mar 19, 2017
Mar 19, 2017 at 11:32 AM UTC
I adore women
I refuse to apologize for it
I like the way their voices squeak in the upper registers
I like the fashions
I like the makeup
I like the aromas
Not the silly runway catwalk Biz that relegates them as awkward mannequins
adorns them in the impractical
and cloaks them in the absurd overreaching of the tired clamoring for something
new and unique
that which exploits their lithesome anorexic perplexing job requirement
I like the way they can shape shift, alter and assume new identities
I like the fact that some have mood swings and ***
I marvel that they can give birth
I like being aware that their 'water-weight' make's them grumpy
I'm astonished that they innately ovulate with the cycles of the moon
and that the Huntress Diana inherently acquired her namesake
Doesn't bother me a bit that "it's a lady's prerogative to be late"
or that opening a door for them is considered 'sexist'
I was raised with a sister and a mother
with lace and dainty frilly things
I caused them a lot of aggravation and consternation
I think they enjoyed it - nonetheless
somewhat
I refuse to apologize for it
May 13, 2013
May 13, 2013 at 12:00 AM UTC
Your eyes smoulder with an imagination that is even bolder than I could have dreamed and colder than this toxic air we've been forced to breathe.
You write poetry across your face to form a Gas mask of rythym, blocking out the hate yet sealing in ideas that might frustrate you.
You hear the birds in the trees and you read the articles in every magazine, you take in information like the bees to the Queen.
Your thoughts radiate an aura surrounding your entire body, you bleed history and pop culture facts, you need the written word like an addict needs their cigarette packs.
You're empathetic to your core, you feel what everyone else does so you hide yourself in your mind until you can categorize the emotions from the lies.
I know you can feel the love in your heart even through all the cracks, like a weathered and torn apart roadmap but you're taped together perfectly and even with a few wrong turns you always find your way back to me.
Apr 2, 2017
Apr 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Closed like confessionals, they thread
Loud noons of cities, giving back
None of the glances they absorb.
Light glossy grey, arms on a plaque,
They come to rest at any kerb:
All streets in time are visited.
Then children strewn on steps or road,
Or women coming from the shops
Past smells of different dinners, see
A wild white face that overtops
Red stretcher-blankets momently
As it is carried in and stowed,
And sense the solving emptiness
That lies just under all we do,
And for a second get it whole,
So permanent and blank and true.
The fastened doors recede. Poor soul,
They whisper at their own distress;
For borne away in deadened air
May go the sudden shut of loss
Round something nearly at an end,
And what cohered in it across
The years, the unique random blend
Of families and fashions, there
At last begin to loosen. Far
From the exchange of love to lie
Unreachable insided a room
The trafic parts to let go by
Brings closer what is left to come,
And dulls to distance all we are.
3.4k
I knew a man once who could read the trees
He'd stand in a field with nothing on
And look at them for hours
(He couldn't talk to flowers)
But he would pour over every branch
Trace every knot and feel their bark
He translated a sycamore for me once
But oaks and beeches were his favourite
He said he just preferred their type.
The elbow bends told him of seasons
The trunk's tilt told the prevailing winds
Their denseness in relation to their neighbours
Told him all manner of gossipy things.
The colours and the hues told of the soil
The moulds and lichens the local fashions
He'd tell you if they'd ever been frightened
By hippies, chainsaws, axes or lightening.
And as I looked on, I realised something
As I read his naked body with no clothes
This man was obviously a stark raving lunatic.
Jan 23, 2012
Jan 23, 2012 at 8:31 AM UTC
Who are we dealing with today, the psychopath on the left or right? All hail to mouth from the North, East, West, and South; how else will you convince your audience with all that inner charm you truly don't possess. Your heart is never in the right place but your full lips seem to flap about like a flatulent **** hole. All things considered, you try to come off as, "I can do it all", but we all know deep inside you're one of the laziest of zodiacal signs. Who else is going to catch up on Hollywood gossip and the latest in tacky fashions, most you Geminians seem to don and adore. It's not all bad, I mean, about the only thing you might be good at is reading this critical review and dismissing it because, like all true psychopaths you still refuse to take a look at all 36 personalities.
Advice: Don't breathe...just leave this Universe, you piece of ****
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 10:45 AM UTC
"...Tell me, for Love's sake, what is that flame which burns in my heart and devours my strength and dissolves my will? What are those hidden soft and rough hands that grasp any soul; what is that wine mixed of bitter joy and sweet pain that suffuses my heart? What are those wings that hover over my pillow in the silence of Night, and keep me awake,watching no one knows what? What is the invisible thing I stare at, the incomprehensible thing that I ponder, the feeling that cannot be sensed? In my sights is a grief more beautiful than the echo of laughter and more rapturous than joy. Why do I surrender myself to an unknown power that slays me and revives me until Dawn rises and fills my chamber with its light? Phantoms of wakefulness tremble between my seared eyelids, and shadows of dreams hover over my stony bed. What is that which we call Love? Tell me, what is that secret hidden within the ages yet which permeates all consciousness? What is this consciousness that is at once origin and result of everything? What is this vigil that fashions from Life and Death a dream, stranger than Life and deeper than Death? Tell me, friends, is there one among you who would not awake from the slumber of Life if love touched his soul with its fingertip?"
Sep 2, 2017
Sep 2, 2017 at 4:37 PM UTC
561
I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes—
I wonder if It weighs like Mine—
Or has an Easier size.
I wonder if They bore it long—
Or did it just begin—
I could not tell the Date of Mine—
It feels so old a pain—
I wonder if it hurts to live—
And if They have to try—
And whether—could They choose between—
It would not be—to die—
I note that Some—gone patient long—
At length, renew their smile—
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil—
I wonder if when Years have piled—
Some Thousands—on the Harm—
That hurt them early—such a lapse
Could give them any Balm—
Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve—
Enlightened to a larger Pain—
In Contrast with the Love—
The Grieved—are many—I am told—
There is the various Cause—
Death—is but one—and comes but once—
And only nails the eyes—
There’s Grief of Want—and Grief of Cold—
A sort they call “Despair”—
There’s Banishment from native Eyes—
In sight of Native Air—
And though I may not guess the kind—
Correctly—yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary—
To note the fashions—of the Cross—
And how they’re mostly worn—
Still fascinated to presume
That Some—are like My Own—
2.9k
Hail to Thee, Immortal Three
Knowledge we sing on laud
Aristotle, Plato, and Socrates
Philosophy, to be human awed
Teach through time, consciously
Nod not, what others fraud
Socrates taught, Divine Being
God not of brutal Athens’ passions
Entity of Beauty, Truth Seeing
Goodness unseen in day’s fashions
Soul for unalloyed agreeing
Lessons humanities’ compassion
Talk eternal justice, everlasting life
Socrates’ Sovereign Right of Reason
Clearly mind deceived sense’s strife
Invincible perfection be God’s season
Thus, our key to knowledge ever rife
Priests who find this, absolute treason
No church or Socratic school
A barefoot man roamed to teach
Socrates mocked for looking a fool
His speech not one to simply preach
Plato witnesses a martyr’s drool
Cruel hemlock, words did so breach
Handsome aristocratic youth Plato
Followed Socrates’ Eternal Wisdom
But soon to find his own credo
In Medara to find Euclid and freedom
Egyptian geometry to provide dado
To Plato life, expression; not a system
Eternally an artist, Plato did develop
Philosophic circle in Academus groves
Bring Athens, world knowledge envelop
Discretions of sensations, be not oaths
What man may be, an animal jealous
Plato’s allegorical cave found in droves
As Plato once be Socrates’ disciple
So too, to Plato would Aristotle be
Passing comprehension archetypal
Successions of genius’ visions do see
Aristotle taking it step further, as vital
To science of hands-on discovery
And this is where we see a parting
Of two distinctly opposing philosophies
Plato being at odds, with science starting
Aristotle’s truth, finding no apologies
Things not happening by chance imparting
Frivolity of duopoly, dichotomy to Socrates
But a new era has surely now dawned
Science exploring an invisible atom
And the seen and unseen correspond
So to Aristotle’s, Plato’s, Socrates’ datum
Brilliant new philosophies have spawned
An abstract notion of conceived stratum
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
473
I am ashamed—I hide—
What right have I—to be a Bride—
So late a Dowerless Girl—
Nowhere to hide my dazzled Face—
No one to teach me that new Grace—
Nor introduce—my Soul—
Me to adorn—How—tell—
Trinket—to make Me beautiful—
Fabrics of Cashmere—
Never a Gown of Dun—more—
Raiment instead—of Pompadour—
For Me—My soul—to wear—
Fingers—to frame my Round Hair
Oval—as Feudal Ladies wore—
Far Fashions—Fair—
Skill to hold my Brow like an Earl—
Plead—like a Whippoorwill—
Prove—like a Pearl—
Then, for Character—
Fashion My Spirit quaint—white—
Quick—like a Liquor—
Gay—like Light—
Bring Me my best Pride—
No more ashamed—
No more to hide—
Meek—let it be—too proud—for Pride—
Baptized—this Day—a Bride—
2.8k
Fashionable entourage
people dance in step
to the beat of hidden
native rituals
Hidden here and there
seeing a pair clad up to the hilt
with colored shades
cool as mountain glades
that never
shakes or simmers
on fire
a real deep desirous searching soul
Rapping about nothing
even though
face to face
words bounce off expressions
as cool as mountain glades
that soon melt-fade
into the distance
Rap, tap, clap
never nap
the cannibus-filled room
embellished by flashing lights
on nights
that take spatial flights
into another world that enters upon
lounging everywhere
people lost in space,
in time,
in androgynous acts
In vogue, you speak to me
about fashions
that dazzle, frazzel, razzle,
and lip curl
and eye twinkle
me to you,
in real
but unreal
cannibus-sweet-dusky-dreamy-rooms
MTV blotched, bleached
Sergio Valente dungarees,
then a real feeling child cries
in the background
and is soon hustled off to bed
And never a hurt we laugh
and smile
and smile
A frozen smile grin;
take it on the chin sport
Keep up the good front
Keep up the grinning fort sport
A sported fort fortified Disneyland
and life's forever
carousel ride
and sweep the dirt under the carpet
A speak about profits
And speak about"ME" yuppie things;
about golden rings
that wrap around ears, around wrists, and cattle noses
Seek time entwined
to search geometrically
the advertisements
that lead you
and nobody but you to you
A love ballad between
one and no one but you
You and you
and you
and you
Being good you
you being good to you,
Being good to nar-sa-see-you
you being good to only you,
to yoou
to yoou
to yoooooooooou
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 4:18 AM UTC
You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?
You shot me back an icon
That looked rather like a hand
But my phone’s screen is small
So I couldn’t quite understand.
I wan’t moving fast enough
To send an answer right back.
You sent another emoji and that
Was when I completely lost track.
I got from you a little thing
Like a jack’o’lantern face
So I sent a laughing icon
That must have been a disgrace.
You zapped back three letters
Which I quickly recognized.
W, T and F, in caps appeared
Like a specter before my eyes.
You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?
I typed in a question mark
And quickly hit the ‘send’
Still hoping against hope
This madness could end
And we could begin to speak
As human beings can do
If they use the keyboard letters
And at least a finger or two.
I never heard from you again
I must have done something bad.
Not even a red face emoji
Or the one that means you’re sad.
I try to stay on top of things
As new fashions will unfold
But this kind of funny picture show
Quickly has gotten old.
You emoji’d me a happy face
I emoji’d you back a heart.
You sent me an okay thing.
When did all this start?
Sep 15, 2017
Sep 15, 2017 at 9:39 PM UTC
Fingers dipped in purple powders
Fushia gold my makeup
Black skintight latex suit with neon circles
How my outfit is made up
Three rings around my waist
Intersecting, two vertical, one on the horizon
The circles glow with noble gases
Radioactive, after all, I'm an alien
Perfect spheres and concentric rings
Are trending, so I have read
I balance on stacked circles, my six inch latex heels
And floating circles surround the pair of buns on my head
My bones poke through my latex,
Anorexia won't stop my passions
I may not be the body type you want, but I'm the body type you have
And I still enjoy the fashions
Feb 29, 2020
Feb 29, 2020 at 2:38 PM UTC