Capricorns, Capricorns are ruled and schooled by the planet Saturn, Saturn, Saturn. A bandit with a similar pattern, pattern, pattern. Capricorns, Capricorns are brethren from a legion; a legion of an atmosphere of the southern-hemisphere; in the equatorial region. At an
angle, angle, angle; Capricorns, Capricorns are angels of Aquarius and

Sagittarius. They’re boisterous, courageous, contagious, glamorous,
prestigious, rebellious, various and victorious-goats, goats, goats!
Capricorns, Capricorns cope, devote, note and quote, quote, quote.
They’re ambitions with superstitions and various missions, missions, missions! They’re novelties and poverties, revelations and

revolutionaries, revolutionaries, revolutionaries. Capricorns, Capricorns are theories and visionaries, visionaries, visionaries.
They’re objects, projects and rejects. They’re leaders and readers that are poetically, negatively or positively dictatorial and doctorial!  Some are historical, optical, political and radical; authentic, eccentric,

neurotic, poetic, theoretic, theoretic, theoretic. Unicorns, Unicorns are biblical and mythical, mythical, mythical; they’re ******, exotic, iconic, ironic, magic, nostalgic creatures, creatures, creatures. Their features
resembling a horse of course, of course. Furthermore, they’re fierce and a force. They’re a breed and creed of desire, fire and perspire, perspire,

perspire, perspire! They’re viral, viral, viral! This partial, sworn steed;
born awesome, awesome, awesome and too blossom, blossom, blossom. Unicorn’s spiral, crescent horn usually projecting and protruding from their foreheads. Rough and tough enough too pierce,
pierce, pierce! Unicorns, Unicorns are defendants, independents and

pendants. Hark! Hark! Hark! They’re brilliant and resilient sparks, sparks, sparks! They’re told as bold, old art, from the heart, from the start. Unicorns, Unicorns are fillers and pillars of guide, pride and
stride, stride, stride. They’re along for the long, long, long ride...
Unicorns, Unicorns are strong, strong, strong! Some as a song, song,

song, some throng, throng, throng, some wrong, wrong, wrong. As a
child, child, child; wild, wild, wild! Unicorns, Unicorns overwhelm, overwhelm, overwhelm. Their domicile realm, apparently, inherently and originally belonging from India; alleluia, alleluia for India, India,

India! Capricorns and Unicorns; two different creations. Capricorns
and Unicorns; two different relations. Capricorns and Unicorns; two
different situations and superstitions. They’re rainbows that glow, know and show. They’re of borrow, of sorrow and of our tomorrow.

Muse the Bobbie, Learned and Scrolling Mentor
For screening this Curtain to show our Task
Basic Words you exhume; Trust, a favour
Later allow us with some Sticks to bask
It takes much swallow to go back to School
And strip us bare with Her Majesty's Words
This how you Speak - With a Rod and a Fool
But then, who cares? Forgans are for the Birds
Now all it takes to supple your behalf
Modelled by the Mad Agent done and pleased
We empty our Fillers; and bid Avast!
Upon Graduation your Skills we take heed.
Thank you so much again, Mentor availed
Success is Reward; Laziness is Failed.

I have been here before, and with this same pen, I express myself through words.
To better understand myself, and to avoid being misunderstood.

Some call it bewitched, but I call it love.
There is an emptiness in the freedom of being alone,
And liberty in being caught in that divine spell.

The day that I stop writing love poetry is the day that my pen's ink will run out,
Along with my sense of connection to humanity.

Love is hard, and so difficult to describe,
Too complex to express simply by stringing words together.
Yet here I am, trying over and over,  
Always feeling limited, unfulfilled, unsatisfied.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, I am comforted by love's familiarity,
Its pleasant tenderness, shining like rays of sun, enveloping me in warmth and sincerity.
Its floral fragrance in the form of beautiful golden sunflowers,
Bundled with red ribbon at the stems, followed by conversations that go on for hours.
Its sweet taste in the form of kisses, followed by more and more and more, all over my cheeks and face,
Until there is not a spot that his lips have not touched, and then I point lower, to a different space.
I want more but I am too timid to say,
But my flushed cheeks and smile gives it away anyway.

But, I've also been here before, reminiscing on this familiarity,
I am then reminded of the heartache that follows, and I get a sense of polarity.
The shattered promises of forever, and the final goodbyes,
The returning of sweaters that smell like him while holding back desperate cries.
The empty and cold interactions as he shuts the door behind him,
The sinking loneliness as I stand in the room that is now increasingly dim.
The racking sobs as my heart begs me to stop doing this to myself,
So, I take the thought of love, lock it in a box, and put it high on a shelf.


But, I have been here before, knowing that I cannot stop,
Love is embedded deep inside of me, it is not something I can just drop.
My heart knows how capable I am to feel such raw emotions,
It flows gracefully through me, and soars with plummeting waves like the ocean.
My heart demands to spark a flame in the one who ignited such feelings inside of me,
It longs and yearns to douse them with love and unwavering loyalty.
It demands to be expressed, through every form of self-expression that I use,
Whether that is poetry, painting, music, whatever outlet I choose to let loose.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, trying to express my feeling of love.
It is difficult and frustrating, and most attempts are ripped apart and disposed of.
I have been trying to describe love for years, and still feel unsatisfied,
The countless filled notebooks are evidence of all the times that I have tried.
I cannot find how to put it simply but in a beautiful way,
I write about it for hours and hours, from night until day.
I want to be cherished for not only who I am, but who I was, and how I came to be,
So instead of writing about love, I will write about how to better love me.

I have not been here before, so I will take it slow,
If it helps you better understand me, please let me know.
This is for you, if you want to love me,
It is complex and it may not come immediately.
Please understand that it will take time,
For you to love me the way that I need, this is not just a rhyme.
This is new to me, I have not been here before,
If it makes you see the real me, for you I will write more.
I have not been here before, but I am still using the same pen,
If you follow my trail of disorganized thinking, please nod every now and then.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I am honest, and I will never lie.
I want you to be my best friend before being my guy.
I want to build a sense of familiarity -- to know about you and your life.
I want consistency, continuous communication, so we can avoid all strife.
I want passion and longing, the magnetic pull between our lips and bodies until they unify.
I want "I love you"s to be meaningful, not fillers to be thrown in when our conversation dies.

He must know that the "he" in this story, could also be a she.
My ability to love isn't limited by appearances that fade with time, life’s bittersweet guarantee.
He must know my personality, my strengths, goals, hopes, and dreams,
And when we fight, he must remember that we are not on opposing teams.
He must know how to support me and my life goals, how to motivate me,
When the coldness of the world frightens me, and I search for ways to escape reality.
He must want the best for me, for me to be happy, even if that is not by his side,
If we realize that we are not compatible, or our relationship makes us feel unsatisfied.
He must know my weaknesses, my flaws.
My tendency to push away when I am overwhelmed, and how to find the probable cause.
He must know that though I love to care for others, I am not great at caring for my own body.
My self-destructive nature has a story of its own, and it is not shared with everybody.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to help him understand me,
I have been fighting my demons for a long time, and I can't remove the shackles that would set me free.
He feels a need to fix me, as if I were a broken wine glass,
I tell him to mind his footing, bringing attention to the pieces he should avoid and overpass.
He thinks that sweet words could be the glue to adhere my shards together,
And praises the curvature of my body, accentuated by a jacket made of leather.
He believes that he could love me more than anyone else has, and by doing so, he would mend me,
I quietly sigh, close my eyes, and slowly count to three.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to make him see,
My broken pieces are not mean to be picked up by fragile hands, nor by anybody.
He learns this when the sharp sting of glass runs along the tips of his digits,
He realizes that the scars on my fingers were from all the attempts I made when I felt brave and ambitious.
Trust me, I have been there before -- I know how much it hurts, I do not want you to share my pain,
I know that I am a sad girl, but still some happiness remains.
I want to embrace this darkness, my ability to feel emotions so immense,
My dear, there is no need to put your fists up in defense.

I have been here before, and I watch him try to fit the pieces together,
But they are sharp, merciless, and weigh much more than a feather.
They are not a puzzle, they do not even fit me anymore,
But he becomes increasingly frustrated, exclaiming that this is more than he asked for.
I try to make him understand that they do not define me,
I only want them to be a visual for my story, I do not need them to be complete, nor to feel free.
I want him to see my past and my struggles, laid on the table,
Only then he will know how intricately strong the roots are that ground me and keep me stable.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and I don't feel like rhyming anymore,
It took me a long time to understand myself and what I stand for.

The shattered pieces that lay before him are all of the times I've lost a piece of myself;
The innocence that I clung to for so long and had to drop in order to survive and adapt.
The ideologies of supportive families, shattered by abusive alcoholics that no one questioned.
The expectations of loving and supportive friends, broken by betrayal and abandonment.
The life that I once knew, had to leave behind, and the shock that crackled my perspective and forever changed me.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to reassure him,
But he is drowning in my sorrows and has forgotten how to swim.
He feels a need to scare away my demons, and cure what plagues my mind,
He becomes frightened by my pain and wants to protect me, so he covers my eyes.
But my self-destructive nature was never his job to correct,
I try to help him understand that I am grateful, I never meant any disrespect.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try prove that I am his equal and that we are the same,
I am not expecting him to be anything more than he is, I am not a helpless dame.
But he feels that it is his duty as a man to complete me, to support me, to give me a reason to smile.
I put down my pen, and and stare into his eyes for a while.

Though I may be broken, I am complete on my own.
The only support I want is holding hands as we walk side by side, not in the form of you carrying me.
Our world is beautiful enough to make me smile, I only want to enjoy it alongside you.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

But, I have been here before, and I have been through all that.
For 24 years actually, so that makes me stronger than you.
I am better equipped and more than capable to deal with certain things on my own,
These pieces are not even a part of me anymore.
My demons do not need to be slain by a knight in shining armor, because they are more afraid of me.
They know what I've overcome, and know that I will not take **** from anybody.

I've been here before, and with the same pen, I acknowledge my strength,
I've rebuilt the walls of my wine glass exterior with precise width and length.
I designed them using the knowledge that I have gained from my hardships and where I went wrong,
I shaped and molded them with the experiences that have taught me how to be strong.
And I placed seeds that blossomed when nourished by my own self-determination,
I spent many years adding to my durable and unbreakable flooring and foundation.
I painted the walls crimson red, and hung golden accents on the ceiling,
And laid mats to meditate on when I am hurting and need healing.

I have been here before, and I've created this for myself,
I will invite you in, if you'd like to see it for yourself.
I am strong, I am intelligent, and I hope to be more brave,
But I am a lover and a fighter, so please don't think that I need to be saved.
I want to share this beautiful experience of life with you,
But it is not a journey that you have to carry me through.
We will put on comfortable shoes and make our way together,
And we'll prepare for obstacles, challenges, and unpleasant weather.

I have been here before, and I see that look in his eyes,
The corners of his lips curl down and he feels the need to apologize.
I don't need an apology, or for you to change who you are,
Let's enjoy our time together and have a cigar.
The universe granted us to exist alongside each other, and we have crossed paths for a reason,
So please enjoy the warm weather with me this season.
There are so many beautiful sights out there,
I don't care what we do, or where we go, we can go to Times Square!
As long as I'm by your side, and you love me,
In the most pure, raw, and passionate form, it would make me so happy.
Put on the other headphone in and listen to this song,
I think now that you understand how to better love me, you can do no wrong.
I put my pen down as we listen along,
I dedicate a playlist to him, filled with love songs.

I have been here before, and even though my pen is down,
It seems that I cannot and will not stop expressing love.

welcome to hello poetry
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carl sandburg and william butler yeats are trending again

Compliments are thrown around like the statement "that's so gay"

Said far to often for reasons of which know one really understands

Most are meaningless
Most mindless
Most common
Most fillers
Ex "hey, you look cute today"
"Thank you" she said with a smile

Everyone is searching for compliments
Like receiving them means something
Like receiving them makes you a greater human

Reality check compliments really mean nothing anymore

So i'm so very sorry cutie, looks like your not so cute today

20:00 - Dinner
Alone but entertained
I like it that way

21:00 - Skype calls
Not having talked for four days
I've missed her yet the occasional silence is nice

22:00 - Fillers
Scrolling through pictures and sharing thoughts
A pleasant and calm feeling

23:00 - Rethinking
The first hypothetical theories about the day
Laughing at the slip-ups to push them away

00:00 - Reflecting
Doubting choices throughout the week
Faking a small smile

01:00 - Endurance
A familiar feeling spreads
Downcast eyes and a facade of peace

02:00 - Creative
New ideas and thoughts fill up the space
Pick and choosing which ones would hurt the most now

03:00 - Idealistic
Reading stories about happiness, pain and change
Wondering what will become of me

04:00 - Closure
Horrible thoughts tearing down the last walls
Curling up and crying again

05:00 - End
Following a familiar routine before sleep comes
Cradling the broken mind

We never talked
Anymore
And when we did
The conversation
                            dripped

Like a dried up
Desert stream

Funny how then he’d seem
Like a tidal wave of talk
Not letting my words walk
Anywhere
Near his extremely important
Ten minute
Explanation
In which he’d sum up that day’s
Cartoons, football matches, car trouble, his hard day of work that ended at lunch
How drunk he got after work, how drunk he was going to get that night
While he fetted without a slight
Thought of me.

So understandably
He was exhausted
And couldn’t
Wouldn’t
Didn’t want to hear

My ten minuets
Of how I missed
The boy who kissed
Me
At a movie theater
Read all my pathetic poetic
Love letters
Told me I was a better
Writer than I thought
Fought for me
Drove across highways for me
Was in love with me truly, madly, deeply
Who told me constantly
That he loved me

When I didn’t believe it
He loved me

When I didn’t want to hear it
He loved me
When I’d just finished crying
He loved me

I miss the boy who never made me feel

Alone

Whose cell phone
Didn’t mind listening to my voice
And given the choice
Would listen to it
All night
Long.

But that boy’s gone.

And I’m left to pick up conversation
With this
Affectionless alien.

I.

The day will soon come
when your children discover
that you are Santa.

II.

After Christmas Eve
no-one really wants to hear
Mariah Carey.

III.

Christmas is about
gifts and time with family
and then *Doctor Who.

I've always been obsessed with beauty and experimenting with trends. As a little kid, I dug through in my mom's purse to snag swipes of her Revlon lipstick. As a teen, I mixed and created my own colorful nail polish long before Hard Candy came out. In high school, I experimented with Manic Panic, going Angela Chase red. In college, I stockpiled Narsbronzer and baked my fair skin in the sun for glowing cheeks and abs. Finally, in my 20s, I stopped trend hopping and embraced a look that was natural and celebrated the unique attributes I was born with. I also adopted an approach to beauty that was very authentic and low-maintenance — no more heat styling, hair coloring, or tanning. And I felt more confident and comfortable than ever.

Now as a beauty editor in my early 30s, I'm bombarded with samples and pitches to try out new products and treatments on a daily basis. While I opt for makeup and creams that play up my natural appearance, I see many of my peers electing stronger and more permanent solutions. I never thought I'd have friends getting Botox and fillers at any age — but so young? Yes, our society is youth obsessed, and if media is to be believed, I've already passed my prime. But I refuse to spend the next 30, 40, 50, 60 years fixated on looking younger.

You know how people say, "I wouldn't try that if it were free"? That's me when it comes to Botox and plastic surgery. About once a week, I receive an email about trying out the latest treatments — typically no strings attached. I delete them. Am I scared that trying something would potentially ruin my face? You bet I am! These procedures are supposed to make people look younger or "better," but everyone who has work done ends up looking the same. To me, beauty is all about celebrating your differences and your unique features. I don't want to look like a cookie-cutter ideal of beauty. I want to look like me — the way I look right now. These smile lines and crinkles in the corners of my eyes? They show the world that I am happy and I have lived a great life. Why would I want to erase that?

One of my peers recently told me, "Well, I never thought I would try Botox, but I went to an event, and the needles were out, so I thought, Why not?" I've heard similar statements since, and it shocks me that nowadays altering your face can be such a casual afterthought — like getting an impulse candy bar at checkout. Another industry friend confessed, "I'm starting to think I should have work done while I still work in beauty so I don't have to pay for it." Should the free element play a factor in being OK with changing your appearance? Especially at what I consider a particularly young age? For many people, it does. Some naysayers claim I'll change my mind when I'm older, but I just can't imagine it. All the women I feel are most beautiful show the signs of a life well lived on their faces, and I want to be one of them. Not a 34-year-old beauty editor with a tight face full of free Botox.

Sure, beauty can be enhanced on the outside, but true beauty, to me, is what you're born with and what you grow into. Advancing technology in Botox, fillers, and invasive procedures may be a huge part of my industry, but I'll be actively ignoring it. I'd much rather educate myself and others on how we can feel good in our own skin.

read more:formal dress shops

www.marieaustralia.com/long-formal-dresses

The solitary reminder,
a sole survivor,
hopeful-placed,
forgivingly encased
in little boxes decorative
hidden in plain sight
throughout our home.

Single and incomplete,
the lonesome leftovers,
openly hid upon bookshelf,
desk corners, fireplace mantels,
storage units of the
I am unlost,
I am unfound,

Raise your hand,
stand up and say
that is me,
that is me.

Minor treasure chests,
of carved wood, seashell real,
acquisitions of trips
to faraway places,
these boxes, they themselves,
visible but unremembered,
just there, no cares,
no one knows,
when or why.

that is me,
is that me?

Space fillers, memory taunts,
grandchildren's playthings, delight,
when they someday come visit,
weather and parents permitting,
finding keys for locks, doors,
from three homes ago.

Can they unlock me too?

Boxes hoard the things
we have lost, but cannot discard,
can't sacrifice, gotta keep,
an admixture of buttons,
dried flowers, faded notes that
once upon a time mattered,
shook someone's world...

Some kept in hope,
others, sequestered, lock-up,
jails that we are both
jailor and jailed,
the joke being on me.

Should we, you and I,
exchange these
cases histories of lost hopes, memories,
it would not be surprising,
if when opened,
the contents identical,
even if you are in Manila,
Leeds, places of need,
and yet,
we would be shocked,
asking,

*that is me,
is that me?

We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.

The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.

America,
where are your credentials?

forced taste into sour mouth
no, sweet
fillers
static existence yet sun and moons
pretend the liars do speak great truths
masterfully woven
the tapestry
gypsy jewels and patterned art
mistaken for rewarding
left dull my watered part
nutritionally devoid
not punishment or repentance
the fast commences
acute

A jaundiced adaptation
    of fillers raucous threats

attempts obsolete mimicking
   in a conspicuous pomposity
     of disfigured reckonings  

slipped us the tongue of your
    ostentatious audacity
mid judgmental manifestations

Disengaged, as our eyes grew dim
     ' neath the masquerade
            of multiplex duplicity


**who the ******* do you think you are?

I remember being friends with a girl who spoke like a fawn and was as thin as a stick. Her face naturally beautiful, her eyes gleaming with happiness. A pageant queen. A cheerleader. But when she told me about protein shakes as fillers for meals I learnt that the happiness was fake. No matter how much she got, who she saw and met, no matter how many "Miss Teen Canada" titled she won, she would be unhappy. She has constant girlfriends come and go, each her own lovely and unique thinspiration; a collage of limbs and bones she aspired to be. Her obsessions took a hold of her for six years, making her sad, delusional, crazy, until the point she hit the 89 pound mark. Until she ended back up in a hospital. I told her I cared. I meant it, too, but I knew the voices in her head were all too loud to hear my truth of her. The truth of a brilliant, talented girl. Sometimes being called "beautiful" is not always a compliment"

I know a boy of european descent. Born in Bulgaria, raised in Canada for just a couple of years. His English got really good after sixth grade, and that's when we finally became friends. I guess now you can say we're best friends. To my expected surprise he turned out to be gay. And to my surprise, it seemed like there was something deeper. He recently sold himself, something that can now only be a shell or a casket. His parents didn't know he was 29. Or that he was gay. i thought about all the fun times- all the sassiness, the dumb jokes, the radio job- and it made me think how much of that was for show. A fake smile. A talented, lively comedian. One that hid behind crude jokes that portrayed a reality all too real to him. Someone who has silently suffered for far too long. I wish he didn't. I wish he didn't have to hide. I am always scared that his last word he hears will be a derogatory one.

There was a girl I was very jealous of. She was my best friend, and creativity flowed through her like a waterfall starting at her heart. She was everything I wanted to be- intelligent, beautiful(in the natural stunning way) and thin. She was so thin. She had impeccable music taste, and we bonded over that. Despite the ******* rock we use to hit the **** to, she enjoyed classical music. She liked being alone. And although she was a self proclaimed optimist, she would hide away her guilt and sadness. I knew she was like me. We both took cold showers while we layed on the bath floor, hoping our hearts would freeze. We would walk the streets of downtown Toronto, praying that the night would swallow us whole. We would *** smokes off of older men in hot leather that rode Harley Davidson's that secretly wanted to **** us. And our cigarette smoke would stick to our summer-kissed skin, and id be even more jealous of how she became tanner and I began to look like a pale little ghost. She was lovely but cheated on. A young looking boy with a galaxy of freckles on this universal boy-band face. He ended up being wrong. The galaxy turned dark black, the boy-band tunes into soft, somber cries. Her cries. I remember having to sit back and watch while I rolled a spliff; I thought about it when I was being caressed too. Optimism can make you see brighter days, but it doesn't stop the hurting your heart will face.

There was a boy I knew who use to smoke his lungs away with **** and french kissed death with pills drowning in alcohol. There was a boy I knew who always use to skip class, but came every once in a while to let the teacher know he was alive. The boy grew too fast, or maybe too slow, or both. One part to reliable and the other too aware. He knew all the causes but never the solutions. He would always fight with anger because he never knew love. No one ever loved him. Instead, i picture him going home, parents neglecting him as he, the lost boy, goes up to his room. Closes the door, drops the blinds, cries. "Be a man" the voices say, but he can't tonight. He focusses too ******* the pain (it's finally something he can focus on). And there was this boy, who dug his nails into his palms, drank until he couldn't see; swinging punches and hitting air as his opponent was strung out on the other side of the room. I never knew if lost boy would cut himself to drain out his sadness or if he snorted more lines to forget what was lying in front of him. I wondered show long it would take lost boy to put the gun to his head and call it quits, how long till his name flashed on the news. Lost boy eventually drowned himself in the bottle, finished the pills, ran out of money and now we don't ever hear from him. He's just lost.

-teenage experience

conceptcollection

"You're so sweet!" "What a cutie!"
Is that the best you can do?
Those are defaults and fillers
I don't want to hear that from you
I want you to point out the things
That the general public don't see
The sides to me that surprise you
Normally masked by timidity
You get to see my lion
But still recognize my lamb
Tell me I'm so much more
Than strangers might think I am
There is a fervid spirit in me
But it's cloaked in a subtle attire
While the entire world calls me simple and sweet,
I need you to call me
A wildfire.

Plush Toys

It is so pleasant for families to stroll about and observe the sights and it only deepens
When grandchildren arrive I call it Gods double blessing first he gives you a future

Through your own seed and bloodline and when the empty nest arrest you in time
If a photo was taken it would be a double exposure their happy and thrilled with

Possibility you are downcast I guess if the camera was futuristic enough to write
A descriptive line it would say sweet sorrow today I shoot an arrow it is only the

Size of a sparrow no I guess a little more plump the size of my heart that is filled
With blues and edged with joy and what success our little man or woman has become

After this emotional confusion runs out of fuel by times great arbitrator it says normal
Must stay the course its life’s way that works until those lonely days you just happen to

Pass there empty room and a rush of sorrow bends you back in time to their childhood
Times but little trees have a way of bearing fruit I see God looking on and in a few days

The telephone rings 911 is for emergency Gods favorite number is seven so the call is
Originated from 777 this directory isn’t delivered to your house but the bundle of joy

Will be coming from this number that says you have reached rapture your heart will
Soon be captured empty nest sorrow has now ended God wants to sweep you into a state

Where promise is king his only job is to secure little princes and princes to mothers and
Fathers that he sees the telling forlorn marks of loss so God stops all of heaven and says

Be silent and behold what I create for those that are on earth’s pilgrim journey still and
He closes his Eyes in deepest thought and then as only God can due perfection six inches

Long with a Gurgle for it s first sound and a twinkle in the eyes that he made out do the
Stars and a Tickle that resounds in cooing I could tell you more but that’s for you to

Discover God holds up this wonder the scene they borrowed for lion king and the throng
Of heaven Erupts with every emotion known to man and it settles on this unknown new

Life that’s what you feel when you feel his little finger wrap around your finger heaven’s
Lingering Sweetness unexplainable but as certain as God himself so the wonder is handed

To His Guardian angel who will serve and protect him his or her whole life and father
God will be waiting his joyous return many days hence his guardian angel will lead the

Way and Yet again heaven will cheer so the tiniest glory God could think of will be all
Yours to spoil for many this arduous job has already begun the pain shows in your face
From the Over stretching smile

You don’t need to know where this came from but I think it’s important to share as a
Footnote I Skipped Church last night and set on a street of my childhood and wrote a

Piece that that I just threw away it might  have ended as what I just call fillers if no one
Gets or cares About Them I was trying to address pain and sorrow to give a small comfort

You start in That Direction expect a crashing emotional wave caring is the sharpest knife
It isn’t blood that flows but hard sobbing tears my heart spoke but when it left my mouth

It was hard to understand but with all that is within me I prayed God help me help others
I set here crying again without shame so many are going to miss there heavenly home for

A godless Fist full of this worlds nothingness I will let you judge if you think God
Answered my Prayer or not this piece had a different title and it is worlds away from

What I started you don’t even know how many tears you will crawl through to end up
In eternity with the greatest fiend more so than all nightmares combined

We have no memory
Of the things we last talked
Of the time
The place
The moment
The everything
And yet we can just pick up
From where we left
Without ever caring what it was
People have memories
Of what they last talked
And how they last ended
And they pick it up from there
Like a thread that goes on
We are as good as our last memories
With each other
The rest is all a mist

And at times those threads that people are, run thin
And thinner
Yet thinner
And just vanishes
And they never talk again
They never pick up
They just run into new ones
New colours
New textures
New memories

At times though, people are more than these memories
At times, we don’t need memories
We don’t need no occasions
We just pick up
Like it was a perpetual conversation that we were having
Like we were always meant to talk
About everything
And nothing
Even those silence moments of ours
Were like conversations
That never begged any words
That never begged no meanings
And was yet so whole
It was all a giant talk
Like blurbs out of this life
Or was it this life itself
Was that something that was meant to be
Coz it made us so whole

Then, one does not bother what they said
One does not bother about any memories
Or about any of them
Them, the people, passing by
Looking at us
Muttering things
And we only smiled
Or stayed mum
And that was our talk
Coz we always talked
Even when we promised not to
Life was this big conversation
That we were meant to have
And the rest of it all were just fillers
Like those commercials
During those shows

And we would meet after them all
And just pick up from where we left
Or wait
We just did not remember
Where we’d last left
There were no memories
Of what we last talked
There need not have been
Coz life of ours
Is but a conversation
Between us
And those memories that never were
And those that never will be

when time constrains

thoughts unshackle
in small bursts.

My poetry is the embodiment
of the creator's fore knowledge of my existence.
My birth to my death are in each line
that I've laid down to lay with.

With a power my speech can not equal
my writings demand I "let there be."
Now, she's calling for me to sacrifice it
as Abraham was told to sacrifice his Seed.

Yet his requester provided a replacement
once loyalty was shown in the raised knife.
A trapped sacrifice to spare the son
from a blade raised to honor the All Mighty.

You know that I would give you anything
yet nothing has pulled my fingers away
from the plunging of blades into my eternity
with each completed writing's lifting away.

Where is my ram struggling in strong vegetation?
Where is your voice stating firmly
that I've done enough to show my heart
and that my lineage has been spared by mercy?

Inspiration tells me its receptive desires
so God must know my divine purpose in creation
is the reception of initiating penetrations
that conceives fillers of the gap between our separation.

You live to tell stories;
so that you can tell somebody important
so that they'll put you on a pedestal
to listen closely for words of amazement and admiration.
You live for the satisfaction of other people
base your value on their comments.
they determine your price tag
Tell me
what will you do when they no longer care?
Where will you go to be admired?
When the world is done with you
and on to the next and
all you have is the past
memories that only played fillers...
that meant nothing but
a trophy to you
they lose their worth,
wrinkles and scars mark your skin and your heartbeat slows
Did you live for you?
or the judgment of someone else?

1.
Nothing is stable:
not moods,
not relationships,
not circumstances.
It is better this way -
when things are bad
do not say “it gets better,”
which may or may not be true.
Say it gets different.

2.
People are not always
going to be there for you
when you want them to be,
they will be busy or sick or asleep or indifferent.
Words do not equate to action.
Words can just be fillers.
“Love” does not always mean good,
“Love” does not always mean support,
“Love” can be in name only.
Love is something
entirely different.
You deserve Love.

3.
“Don’t ask, don’t receive,”
is the way it is.
You must always make an effort
to initiate friendships.
Even so, don’t expect them to last.
Know also
that it is not your fault if/when they fail.
Nothing lasts forever -
this is okay.

People who Know
will sometimes ask how they can help.
If you don’t tell them
they won’t do anything,
won’t offer suggestions,
will probably offer other things instead:
apologies, anger, their own guilt.

If you cannot explain well enough,
be prepared for no change,
no aid,
nothing.
They are not mind readers,
after all.

For some people
explanations won't help,
will not make them
understand.
Let these people go.

4.
If you state a boundary,
and it cannot,
will not,
be honored or remembered,
grit your teeth through it.
Know that it will be okay soon enough,
but always remember
your triggers are still real.

5.
If you engage with acquaintances,
you must find the balance
between Distrust and Hope.
Not too much hope -
that would be naïve,
set you up for a hard[er] fall.
Not too much distrust –
that would make you
Bitter,
Unpalatable.

You must play nice
with everyone,
walk on eggshells
if you must,
but even then
know you will never please everyone and
prepare for the worst.

6.
You will never be prepared enough.

7.
You will learn
what is necessary
and unnecessary
in your life,
how to make do
on very little.

This is a blessing and a curse,
this is the way it is now,
but it does not always have to be this way.

You are allowed
to have wants and needs
standards and expectations,
even if it feels Wrong.

If they cannot handle you,
you do not have to keep them
in your life.

Having very few friends
is not Bad or Wrong or Abnormal.

You can do without
most people.

8.
You do not have to
empty every word of meaning.
Being empty
is a way to stay alive,
but it does not have to be this way.

9.
Your intuition is valid.
Do what feels right,
do not spend time regretting.

10.
You are not weak
like your mother says.

**** your mother,
**** mombrain,
**** every single person
who has hurt you and put you down.

You have survived
23 years of heartaches and breaks,
exquisite forms of torture.
You are strong.

Everybody has soul
Our souls thirst
For gods healing spirit
Our souls know
Our souls hunger
Even thirst
To be whole
We spend so much time
Trying to fill that thirst
With everything but
Gods cleansing spirit
Ultimately the more
We fill up on empty things
The more thirsty
Our souls become
We need to let go
Of the fillers of the world
And focus on the
Nourishing power
Of the spirit

she gave me white light
it looks like a light sword
making numerous echo in space
I did not ask for what ...I know
no ornamental word would do

futile definitions
flashy ads
waste of breath

15 minutes of clutter
15 minutes of fame
15 minutes of a life
yep Warhol was right

empty containers
to be filled up
to create -fillers
a byproduct of ego
of a selfless time
oh what an an illusion
I live in sometime
not knowing media as the bird's call

true technology is my received gift
with me inside or you
is there a difference?

we are all embodiment
carrier of the code
essence of eternal

not to hurry though
not to resist
resist resists the self just
I cannot trespass the chanting
I shall not think to try
thinking is my only sin

why do we fight?
mo and mu were the same guy
two incarnations in one or three
born at different times
their writers failed just

the difference definer
yes definer and not the creator
'create' remains holy
with a spirit – like words with
spirit-  
running memory
activated by sound maybe

the difference definer sets bricks
of flamboyance
en route escape to escape lifetimes
invites the endless cycle of fight

could fray be for peace
and not by cowardice?
fear is my only sin
born from ignorance
of self
as in my- as in your-
not a portmanteau but
an affix by nature
so there is no difference

let fray be for peace
then A joker's viola
let it be a joke for
a joyous while
for a joyous halftime
you don't need do much really
if you can whistle once
under the golden sun
through your belly
somewhere in a cool place
selfless illusion fades
there is nothing else

no book could describe
as such
I have crossed libraries
with my starship
but the source light
not bound to time so yes
for whatever it was
I closed my eyes

slowly learning to dance now
along its wings
it has more to tell then its aesthetics

we cross dimensions while
we perpetually make some
the reflection the waveform
in a little note we harmonize
my fingertips- carrier of a glow
I - the particle of light
we pass
and yes after each turn
there is a you to learn from
or I to be.

I've murdered half of
the people who stood
between us to clear
the view

I've been inside
your mind and carved
out love notes

they are on the
bodies you read

on the lives
you try to
reconcile

but there is
no chance
of that now

promises lie, dead,
with the motionless
grave fillers  

in a moment
I am holding your
hand in autumn,
watching winter
born

ice and snow
to purify
the way I feel
tonight

I left my finger –
prints on your face
a kiss that lingers
and dies as you
turn cruel

I smell your
aftershave in
their hair as it
rubs off me
onto them

as you
rub off me
onto them

we won't be
meeting like this
again

we won't be
sharing spit
and blooded
bed sheets

and though you
say your heart
is frozen, I promise

it will thaw

I said I walk on floorboards made of dust,
whispering, every breath, you've touched
pushing tear drops down tear ducts
hoping for sin to fall off

crying stories of sacrifice
the children listen
far too much
your stories have grown bitter old man
the children deserve better

I said I've known shadows make better fillers
pleading, I don't want to feel, no, not that much
taping shut my eyes, I remember
this fading light the children know so well

burying legs in dirt, forts are castles
they know airplanes are really
seats that fly
building houses in the sky

I said I was a child once
You said,
why the rush jack, it ain't always time to grow up

You're something a little better then me
I'm something worse.
Sticky fingereds,
Lifted purse.
I'm a thief, a liar
A seller, a buyer.
You're a light
I, the shadow.

The viral killers,
The taxing billers,
Musical fillers,
Blood spillers,
You are my cure.

Silver tongue rusted to dust.
Speaking not a word,
Relaying no dawn to dusk,
I, the wingless
Flightless bird.

Keep bright this sinful day
High above, never a glare
A guarded front of relay
To replace the smile rare.
I do not dare.

Blue bells ring delicate notes,
Vibrations lift, soar and float,
They are elated, they who hear
Gifted are those,
Granted the audible tear
Of angels who weep,
The bitter keep,
Of beauty and turmoil sleep.

I, who keeps the graves at bay
Shadowed by the moon and day,
Collect the tears of widows.
They fall forever, for time is slow.
Though all becomes the past,
Life slips between us
Always too fast.
The sensation of love,
The sweet sights of flightful doves,
Never last.

I, the worst
You, the better between
I, the nameless curse
Of a hundred hexes
Tenfold.
You, the snowfall of light
And life, in a hundred truths
Always told,
In sweet tongue.
The song, flawless
Perfectly sung.
The smile never there,
Has left.
For I, the worst
Am deaf.
And could never hear
The fall of weeping angels
And audibul tears.

I closed and locked the bureau
Shut.
I said it was finished
But, honestly, I never meant a word
The prose written on a misty window
Requiring heated breath to maintain presence
Time would only fade it all away
In the moments passed since then
I have stared mournfully at the blessed white skin
That wraps my wrists like swaddling
A surgical blade in steady hand
Contemplating cutting out that playful creature
Who keeps me dancing between here and there
Trouble, I find, as he dwells not in this soft flesh
But deep within my off beat heart

I left a love letter tucked between piano keys
And still find pennies under the sofa
Blown kisses tucked in breast pockets
So as not to float unto another’s lips
I left a note beneath your pillow
So your head might rest on its soft caress
Sometimes when you’d kiss me to insane
I’d open my eyes to the moon-struck presence
Of true content in your ghost face
I never knew such beauty
Perhaps I made you up inside my head
I often wonder, should I blink
Would I find myself alone in bed
I look into the mirror to remind myself I’m there
Slowly, my reflection shakes its head in despair

We met in the most deceitful of places
Something opaque drew me to your side
I toppled then from the trapeze
And fell into your dilated eyes
I must steal my soul back from you
For the rustiness of my words appals me
Oh God, love is the most lonely emotion
They will laugh in mockery at my aching
For time will heal the deepest wounds
But I, I stress, am a terminal patient
And they, citizens of the world,
The great grave fillers
Do not believe in such a sickly diagnosis
For there is bliss in ignorance
My dying is an art
As though closing the door is the end of it all

I wear your clothes around an empty house
My feet take me to the mirror to stare
Into dead eyes and back
To bed
Where I may pretend
That the journey has not been marked
By the stroke I cut into the life line of my stretched palm
In an attempt to whisper to the Gods
I wander busy streets glazed over
Conscious that our feet once went together
Along these very bricks to memory lane
My shadow sinks to the dust of the ocean floor
Like a child holding its breath
It is clear
It was not us that could not go on,
But me.

Darkness creeping
Warmth is leaving
The air is thick
Did you feel that *****
Burning roaring
Sorrows pouring
Tremors shaken
Felt forsaken
Silence screaming
Am I dreaming
Waves crash down
Face with frown
Stabbing fillers
Huge like pillars
Arduous years
Bleeding cheers
Agony death
Feel this stress
Did you feel it
The torment that won't quit

I N T R O D U C T I O N
HOW TO EXPRESS LOVE

“Some call it bewitched, but I call it love.
There is an emptiness in the freedom of being alone,
And liberty in being caught in that divine spell.”

I have been here before, and with this pen, I express myself through words.
To better understand myself, and to avoid being misunderstood.
The day that I stop writing love poetry is the day that my pen's ink will run out,
Along with my sense of connection to humanity.
Love is hard, and even more difficult to describe,
Too complex to express simply by stringing words together.
Yet here I am, trying over and over,  
Always feeling limited, unfulfilled, and unsatisfied.

I have been here before, trying to express my feelings when in love.
It is frustrating, and most attempts are ripped apart and disposed of.
I have been trying to describe love for years, and still feel unsatisfied,
The countless filled notebooks are evidence of all the times that I have tried.
I cannot find how to put it simply but in a beautiful way,
I could write about it for hours and hours, from night until day.
But to fully understand love, I must reflect back and see,
How I love, how I was loved, and how I love me.
____________

P A R T  O N E
HOW I LOVE

I have been here before, I am comforted by love's familiarity,
Its pleasantness, shining like rays of sun, enveloping me in warmth and sincerity.
Its floral fragrance in the form of beautiful golden sunflowers,
Bundled with red ribbon at the stems, followed by conversations that go on for hours.
Its sweet taste in the form of kisses all over my cheeks and face,
Until there is not a spot that his lips have not touched, and I point lower to a different space.
I want more but I am too timid to say,
But my rosy cheeks and bashfulness give it away anyway.

But, I've also been here before, reminiscing on this familiarity,
I am then reminded of the heartache that follows, and I get a sense of polarity.
The shattered promises of forever, and the final goodbyes,
The returning of sweaters that smell like him while holding back desperate cries.
The empty and cold interactions as he shuts the door behind him,
The sinking loneliness of standing alone in a room that is now too dim.
The racking sobs as my heart begs me to stop doing this to myself,
So, I take the thought of love, lock it in a box, and tuck it away on a high shelf.

But, I have been here before, knowing that I cannot stop,
Love is embedded deep inside of me, it is not something I can just drop.
My heart knows how capable I am to feel such raw emotions,
It flows gracefully through me, and soars with plummeting waves like the ocean.
My heart demands to spark a flame in the one who ignited these feelings inside of me,
It yearns to douse them with loving adoration and unwavering loyalty.
It demands to be expressed, through every form of self-expression that I use,
Whether that is poetry, painting, music, or whatever outlet I choose to let loose.
____________

P A R T  T W O
HOW TO LOVE ME

I long to be cherished for not only who I am, but who I was, and how I came to be,
So instead of writing about love, I will write about how to better love me.
I have not been here before, so I will take it slow,
If it helps you better understand me, please let me know.
This is for you, if you want to love me,
It is complex and it may not come immediately.

Please understand that it will take time,
For you to love me the way that I need, this is not just a rhyme.
This is new to me, I have not been here before,
If it makes you see the real me, for you I will write more.
I have not been here before, but I am still using the same pen,
If you follow my trail of disorganized thinking, please nod every now and then.

I am honest, and I will never lie.
I want you to be my best friend before being my guy.
I want to build a sense of familiarity, to know about you and your life.
I want consistent communication so we can avoid all strife.
I want passion and longing, the magnetic pull between our lips as they unify.
I want "I love you"s to be meaningful, not fillers when our conversation dies.

He must know that the "he" in this story, could also be a she,
My ability to love isn't limited by appearances that fade with time, life’s bittersweet guarantee.
He must know my personality, strengths, goals, and my dreams,
And when we fight, he must remember that we are not on opposing teams.
He must know how to support me and my life goals, how to motivate me,
When the coldness of the world makes me search for ways to escape reality.


He must want the best for me, for me to be happy, even if that is not by his side,
If we realize that we are not compatible, or our relationship makes us feel unsatisfied.
He must know my weaknesses, my flaws,
My tendency to push away when overwhelmed, and how to find the probable cause.
He must know that though I love to care for others, I am not great at caring for my own body.
My self-destructive nature has a story of its own, and it is not shared with everybody.
____________

P A R T  T H R E E
HOW I WAS LOVED

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I tell him about my life,
Like the times I fought bare-****** against life’s merciless and cold knife.  
I am not a hero, not even in my own story,
But I am not one to boast or seek any type of glory.
I have grown and matured from my battles, so do not be afraid,
There is no reason for you to rush to my aid.
I find myself apologizing for the scars that I embedded on my own skin,
Sometimes it was easier to find comfort at the bottom of my bottle of gin.
I am withered, no longer beautifully brand-new,
So I apologize for sometimes randomly feeling sad out of the blue.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to help him understand me,
I am bound by my demons, and can't remove the shackles that would set me free.
He feels a need to fix me, as if I were a broken wine glass,
I bring attention to the glass pieces on the floor that he should avoid and overpass.
He thinks that sweet words could be the glue to adhere my shards together,
And praises the curvature of my body, accentuated by a jacket made of leather.
He believes that he could love me more than anyone else has, and by doing so, he would mend me,
I quietly sigh, close my eyes, and slowly count to three.



I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to make him see,
My broken pieces are not meant to be picked up by fragile hands, nor by anybody.
He learns this when the sharp sting of glass runs along the tips of his digits,
Understanding that my scarred fingers were from all the attempts I made when I felt brave and ambitious.
Trust me — I know how much it hurts, I do not want you to share my pain,
I know that I am a sad girl, but still, some happiness remains.
I want to embrace this darkness, my ability to feel emotions so immense,
My dear, there is no need to put your fists up in defense.

I have been here before, and I watch him try to fit the pieces together,
But they are merciless and weigh much more than a feather.
They are not a puzzle, they do not even fit me anymore,
But he becomes frustrated, exclaiming that this is more than he asked for.
I try to make him understand that they do not define me,
I only want them to be a visual for my story, I do not need them to feel free.
I want him to see my past and my struggles laid on the table,
Only then he will know how strong the roots are that ground me and keep me stable.


I have been here before, and I don't feel like rhyming anymore,
It took me a long time to understand myself and what I stand for.

He thinks I am a broken wine glass, but he does not understand.
The glass shards that lay before him are all of the times I've lost a piece of myself;
The innocence that I clung to for so long, and had to let go of in order to survive and adapt.
The ideologies of supportive families, shattered by abusive alcoholics that no one questioned.
The expectations of loving and supportive friends, broken by betrayal and abandonment.
The life that I once knew, had to leave behind, and the shock that crackled my perspective and forever changed me.





I have been here before, and with the same pen, I try to reassure him,
But he is drowning in my sorrows and has forgotten how to swim.
He feels a need to scare away my demons, and cure what plagues my mind,
He becomes frightened by my pain and wants to protect me, so he covers my eyes.
But my self-destructive nature was never his job to correct,
I try to show him that I am grateful, I never meant any disrespect.

I have been here before, and with the same pen, I express that I am his equal and that we are the same,
I am not expecting him to be anything more than he is, I am not a helpless dame.
But he feels that it is his duty as a man to complete me, to support me, to give me a reason to smile.
I put down my pen, and stare into his eyes for a while.


Though I may be broken, I am complete on my own.
The only support I want is holding hands as we walk side by side, not in the form of you carrying me.
Our world is beautiful enough to make me smile, I only want to enjoy it alongside you.
____________

P A R T  F O U R
HOW I LOVE ME

I have been here before, and I have been through all that.
For 23 years, so that makes me stronger than you.
I am better equipped to deal with certain things on my own,
Those broken pieces are not even a part of me anymore.
My demons do not need to be slain by a knight in shining armor, because they are more scared of me.
They know what I've overcome, and know that I will not take **** from anybody.

I've been here before, and with the same pen, I acknowledge my strength,
I've rebuilt the walls of my broken wine glass exterior with precise width and length.
I designed them using the knowledge that I gained from where I went wrong,
I shaped and molded them with the experiences that taught me how to be strong.
And I planted flowers that blossomed when nourished by my own self-determination,
I spent many years adding to the durable and unbreakable flooring and foundation.
I painted the inner walls crimson red, and hung golden accents from the ceiling,
And laid down mats for meditating when I am hurting and need healing.

I have been here before, and I've created this for myself,
I will invite you in, if you'd like to see it for yourself.
I am strong, I am intelligent, and I hope to be more brave,
But I am a lover and a fighter, so please don't think that I need to be saved.
I want to share this beautiful experience of life with you,
But it is not a journey that you have to carry me through.
We will put on comfortable shoes and make our way together,
And we'll prepare for obstacles, challenges, and unpleasant weather.

I have been here before, and I see that look in his eyes,
The corners of his lips curl down and he feels the need to apologize.
I don't need an apology, or for you to change who you are,
Let's enjoy our time together and have a cigar.
The universe granted us to cross paths for a reason,
So please enjoy the warm weather with me this season.

There are so many beautiful sights out there,
I don't care what we do, or where we go, we can go to Times Square!
As long as I am by your side, and you love me,
In the purest and passionate form, it would make me so happy.
Put the other headphone in and listen to this song,
I think now that you better understand me, you can do no wrong.
I put my pen down as we listen along,
I dedicate a playlist to him, filled with love songs.

I have been here before, and even though my pen is down,
It seems that I cannot and will not stop expressing love.

The stone prophet calls, "you've got some work to do, son"
Moon's sleepy coruscation wake before me runs
I instead reflect the light of the pulsing hot sun
To blind all the answers until the question's given up

A light warm and safe and easy to unfold
For another to wrap 'round your tongue and your nose
But my dance you catch in your searching eye rolls
So I refuse to bow and to pick up my rose

Because light is simple and reflected and not mine
Far easier to slice into thrices and dine
On the fine wafer fillers and loose-legged wine
Because though light is heartless- it's far from unkind

So why must I face, then, the undulating moon?
The immensity, instensity, the blue lover's swoon?
The well of reflection white clarity in tune
To the spotted man crouching, denying his rheum

My starry knight buckles and falls down depleted
In a panic, I frantically get my men seated
I wring out the cosmos for what I've become
As I turn and say
"You've got some work to do, son"

Lost out in the summer rain
Lost in a haze of summer gazes
All the fences razed to the ground
Inescapable sounds
Of oh isn't he smart
He will go places
Yeah but not your places
Places full of plastic faces
Hiding behind glass window display cases
Going to the moon
The scent of mediocre doom
Filling the room
Like whiskey *****
Fined for misconduct
Of a conduit into a cliche artist
Talking like tongues twisted off of
Mouth numbing shots of grey goose and jäger
Talking like slick Rick spitters
Who don't long for quick fillers
Of life experiences poured in a pitcher
And I'm talking *******
Pbr bellied fool ****
But rest assured
My inhibitions cured
I talk true ****

what will I be worth
when I am no longer
19
my young naive appeal
to the forty-year-old's
with cash in hand
they'll go somewhere else
who will want me
When I am no longer
19
20
21
I'll be too old
for these lackluster fillers of my time
I think
it seems
death may come sooner
than originally thought

Your lovely eyes(widened by a surgeon's knife) in happiness shine,
those pouting lips sure contain some fillers,to make them lusciously full,
and the make up that creates an aura,I can't fail to notice , is subtle,
yet, I hope the beauty invisible is pristine still in your tranquil soul.