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Michaela Tripp Mar 2013
Freckles sprinkle the face of an innocent child
Like April rain showers
sprinkle the green grass with yellow flowers.
She walks across the grass with her  little toes
like skipping stones on the summer lake.
To her the world is just as innocent as her freckles
and no one can hurt her.
This little girl is older now and the innocent freckles still remain
but she has come to learn the world is not as innocent as her freckles.
Her world has turned cruel.
She has seen hate, she has seen evil, and she has been hurt.
She sits and she wonders why her world changed
and why the world could not stay as innocent as her freckles.
Because even as she grew older
her freckles stayed just as innocent
and she wonders why her world could not have done the same.
Tawanda Mulalu Apr 2016
Pale-skinned girl from Indiana,
with freckles,
yes, freckles, on your cheek,
this is who I am. This is my story.
It is only coincidence that I sing it
to you,
but sing, nonetheless, I do. One morning
amidst the restlessness of my top-bunk sheets
I heard a whispering and thought it might be God it was
me. My unconsciousness begging me
for nourishment, silently loudly attacking
my awareness with questions: it asked why
I neglect it. Pale-skinned girl from Indiana,
with freckles,
yes, freckles, on your cheek,
is this, too, why your body vibrates
when your thoughts are feelings? Because you too
have recognized feeling as thought? That that
faculty of wonder you hush about as if a
***** secret of forgotten childhood memory
is something that is as real as
the metaphysical pores of a skin you cannot touch,
but know is not some foreign, distant, effacing
thing, but is thick, is thick, thick as words
creaking like old wood in a library filled
with students who read so much ******* to get into
college but never venture forth for such skin
in the skin of those unconscious voices in the
shelves? Selves: we call them books but they breathe.
The ideas wriggle in your veins like
a worm. They block your blood yet move
your soul. The stillness of your speechlessness
is some movement in itself. So I suspect of you,
pale-skinned girl from Indiana,
with freckles,
yes, freckles, on your cheek.
                                                So I suspect of myself.

I do not understand how else I could have been born
without eyes which we call eyes. I cannot see
why else.
                I cannot.
                                 You cannot.

There is light over there in that darkness.
               A glimpse of it- a sliver of silver
has shocked you into your paleness. Into my
blackness. It is the same difference. A different
Line break:

A mirror tells me things with my eyeless eyes.
My brownness ***** me into journeys with
tunnels so deep that we call them pupils.
In the distance that I gaze into I find
myself gazing into a distance I gaze into. Fathom
it. Do not. Will not will it will it will not
willed. Touching it will wilt it without touching:
this is the soul you said does not exist.
             It is not there. It is.

In Indiana.

Where's that? asks my blood.

In Indiana.

Over there? my finger points out the window.

No. It is.

It is. Not.

Suddenly I smell something and it is myself.
It is not Indiana or freckles or pale-skin.
I ask you where it is.
Suddenly you smell something and it is yourself.
It is not Gaborone or curly-haired or black.
You ask me where I think it is.

What the **** do we know?
Jessie Nov 2012
I find that
Freckles seem to make the strangest shapes.

I find that I lose myself
With the connect the dots game
On your face.
I count three on your neck
Below your soft forest of hair.
A pointed constellation.
I imagine inside the freckle triangle,
It says: kiss here.
And kiss you I do.

I find that
Your freckles tell me where to travel with my lips.
I am going down down down
And now there's goosebumps.
Ah, the land is not fallow yet.
Further and further.
One dot, two dots, small dots, big dots.

I find that
My mouth is growing warm with
The taste of your pastures
Enveloping it.
I am hungry.

I find that
The land further down is bare.
A desert.
No more freckles to follow.
I look up for the first time,
And there you are,
Gasping for air.

My turn.
lilac Oct 2016
a small teaspoon
of sweet brown sugar
sprinkled on her nose

her brown hair cascaded
down her back
her dark blue eyes gleamed
in generosity and beauty.

they grew,
beginning to splotch
everywhere upon her face.
some called her ugly,
despite her vibrant eyes
her long wavy hair,
her mum, to be specific,
said she was amazing
and looked fantastic
and who wouldn’t want
‘beautiful’ freckles?

the insults didn’t stop,
they flew
at the girl with freckles
like peter pan
charging through the air
at top speeds.

as the girl with freckles
grew up,
she and they started to
accept the fact that
the shining sun created
her with
I have freckles, so I think that's kind of what inspired this poem! Though all of it's not true - I just used myself as inspiration.
Daisy Rae Jul 2017
My mom once told me that freckles were angel kisses
Because around age seven other kids would ask me why I had dots on my face
As I grew older I soon realized that freckles were not actually angel kisses
I found out the cause of my freckles was from the lack of melanin I had in my skin
Every time I went under the sun, the rays would dot my face with brown pigmented circles
I used to absolutely hate my freckles
They covered my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my arms and legs
I hated when people would compliment me on them because I didn't want that to be the only thing they noticed
After a long time of hating these brown specks scattered throughout my entire body
I finally looked at myself a little closer in the mirror
I noticed how they made my face pop and my arms look like a masterpiece
For the first time in my life I didn't see my freckles as an ugly connect-the-dots page
I saw my freckles as artwork
Unique paint droppings made by the sunlight
I no longer cared about the people who thought they made me look ugly
Because I started to think what if they're just jealous
Jealous that they have too much melanin so all they do is tan
Jealous that they cannot have this piece of artwork painted on their skin
Jealous that I have angel kisses and they don't
My mom still tells me to this day that my freckles are angel kisses
And I believe her.
Meenu Syriac May 2014
Being a woman is hard.
Being a woman
You expect me to be
Is hard.
Being who I am,
Well now,
That's really easy.

So society tells me
I should be thin
Maybe look like 'em supermodels
I guess since
That's not happening
I'll go drown my "sorrows"
In a box of ice cream.

Be beautiful
By putting all that mush on my face?
Sorry, no thank you
I'll pass.
I'll be me with all my spots, marks
Freckles and all.

Because you see,
What I am,
Well the genes,
Were handed to me,
By the two most beautiful people
In the world,
Yes, freckles and all.

I am independent
I am smart
I dont need to look like a clown
To please your senses.
I'm much more than
What's on the surface.
So if you wanna like me
Its a package deal,
Freckles and all.
Its very imperfect, but what the heck, I just wrote what came to my mind. This one's for the ladies. Yes, feel beautiful, be beautiful. Be who you are.
Have a good day :)
Erenn Sep 2014
Those dots
Aligning to constellations
Perfecting that presence
Beauty in its eminence
I swear i could count every single dot
Even the ones barely visible

Radiant in its aura
Burning every enmity
Scars of contempt depleted
No longer existed in you
Your face mimics the night sky
Those freckles glinting like stars
That smile akin to crescent
Ever so elegant like the full moon

So don't cover it up my dear
That's what i love most about you

The freckles on your face
*Is what makes you beautiful
I don't understand how some individuals with freckles are insecure with themselves.
I wanna have freckles badly!
Anyways, I got inspired by a couple i was sitting next to.
Her BF said this to her,
**"Your freckles are the stars to my night sky."**
And **** I got inspired!
God bless them strangers:)
If freckles were lovely, and day was night,
And measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie,
Life would be delight,—
But things couldn’t go right
For in such a sad plight
I wouldn’t be I.

If earth was heaven and now was hence,
And past was present, and false was true,
There might be some sense
But I’d be in suspense
For on such a pretense
You wouldn’t be you.

If fear was plucky, and globes were square,
And dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
Things would seem fair,—
Yet they’d all despair,
For if here was there
We wouldn’t be we.
Regen Williams Dec 2013
all i think about
is art
and your fingers on my thighs
all i think about
is your fingers
and your art on my thighs
play connect the dots with my freckles
pull my hair with your teeth
whisper into my neck with
false promises of glory and
paradise in your bedroom
i cant think of anything but
your art
and your fingers
its just pencil on paper
its just your fingers on skin
but its trapped in my brain
like a loop
im on a carousel of daydreams
pull me out and lift me up
and rest me on your chest
so i can play
connect the dots with your freckles
ill find the constellations that
nature painted on your skin
youre my starry starry night
let me pretend to be an astronomer
ill play
connect the dots
with your
LN Apr 2014
Freckles on your pretty face
or constellations in the night sky
I thought,"what's the difference?"
Chase Hunter Apr 2015
The freckles on your face blend your skin in a blanket of unique criteria
noura Aug 2021
That unforgiving metal.
Within that unforgiving metal lies all the things you cannot forgive about yourself.
Those freckles on your chin that you wish would expand into a constellation so that you may give them names and so that you may give them meaning,
within that unforgiving metal.

The Greeks threw their hands towards the heavens
and deemed cosmic accidents worthy of the names of gods,
although within them lie no gifts.
Like a bedazzled and jaded Tiresias impostor one stumbles upon
on their way home,
who sees nothing but the tangible
and tells all but the truth.
Still, he is clad in diamonds and gold
and thus has value in trade.
Beauty triumphs over mendacity
and mendacity over reality.

But the freckles that mar your skin,
that you cannot transfigure into the most meaningless of stars or the crudest of answers,
sit there defiantly,
waiting to be acknowledged and waiting to be named.

You lean your forehead forward to rest against the cool smoothness of its idle twin.
You could swear you saw her sneer at you.
The freckles do not budge—they will consume you whole.
Rockie May 2015
Freckles on your face,
Sunshine in your smile,
Promises made on your pinkie,
Memories in your mind,
Steps taken with your soles,
Hands are being held,
Adoration gleaming in your eyes.
ZL Sep 2014
Freckles dance
      across her face

  Like a southern gal in a
           juke joint place
Alexius Choi Sep 2014
Raindrops on golden hair.
They are brown spots, little spots
Scattered, wind blowing them
Left and right,
Towards her forehead, smooth
Save for two red bumps above
The eyebrows.
Towards her neck, little hairs
Standing, stubbornly, scornfully,
A protest against the
Rainy chill.
These freckles on her crown,
they are tiny constellations.

I want to join them up,
I want to find Orion,
Trace my fingers against Lepus,
Understand the lines of Indus,
But I can't.
Halliday May 2011
You wore extra sunblock because you admired the girls in magazines
That had skin like porcelain free of any blemish or distinguishable mark
When freckles began to spread across your skin you would cry to yourself
Because you felt farther away from your idea of beauty than ever before

When you started wearing makeup to cover them up it broke my heart
Because your freckles were the first thing that I fell in love with
The way they scattered across your face like stars in the night sky
It made me feel like I was looking at something rare and extraordinary

When you said I was too good for you I thought it was just a lame excuse
I assumed you never really loved me to begin with so I decided to give up
I really wish I hadn't been too upset to look you in the eyes that day
Because if I had I would have seen the sadness and heartbreak in them
And I would have known that you really believed all of the things you said

I never forgot the girl with the freckles and a part of me never stopped loving her
Once you love somebody I think a part of you holds on forever
I wish I could tell her that every time I look at the stars I see her face
AntRedundAnt Jan 2014
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row   changed   hanging   lied   drenched   companion   begins   strength   flies   direction   okay   stories   inky   stubborn   cloud   track   described   lover   replaced   pit   packs   circling   honest   wage   dinner   slave   paradox   faking   screamed   lightning   exterior   stopping   complete   deal   rifle   dependent   gifts   dancer   vision   students   horror   punch   anymore   pack   sagging   folk   honestly   tearing   prepared   creatures   listening   rhythm   unique   roar   card   glass   stage   desert   offered   fought   suffer   awoke   master   eating   furnace   glad   choir   graceful   *****   treasure   ships   bark   musical   strand   bee   finished   pink   slink   stronger   disclose   gravity   schedule   march   medicine   hates   weird   brush   laughs   helped   june   pitched   dumped   tense   sin   withdrawn   stem   proved   whispered   anew   amazing   louder   english   knocked   chilly   boots   false   mistake   toffee   whistle   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haven't   what's   you'd   they'd   man's   boys'   god's   woman's   fruit's   orion's   newton's   lincoln's   adam's   momma's   ******   jackson's   audis   dulces   disproportionately   charon's   deseos   avocadoes   hailey   eran   beatles'   ingles   he   she   it   rackets   --   hashtag   sixty-three   duct-tape   joysticks   sherman's   15   6th   32   500   7th   2013   extraño   barenaked   tamales   6-year-old   tierras   derpy   ewell   rom-com   themit's   adan   mudpits   puddlepits   war--hell   culp's   shitpits   completaron   chocolatada   levantanse   duraznos   n'sync   huevo   cholitos   levantaron   manzanas   endurece   wozniak's   dispara   nuez   open-endedness   innies   cankles   dunder-mifflin   tunks   buck-toothed   outies   grief-blown   a-gawking
I uploaded all of my past work onto the site already, so everything from here on out will be new and original. This is sort of an experimental idea of mine: take all the words hellopoetry has tracked for me, put it down as if it were a poem, and see how it flows. It actually kind of works sometimes, but I'm not sure. I'm sure it's mostly terrible, but I wanted to try it. Let me know what you think in the comments below!
Kaitlyn Marie Feb 2014
Did you know that a face without freckles, is like the sky without the stars?*
It is a beautiful imperfection
that no one could hold an objection
so be proud of your face
because you can only erase mistakes
@Copyright Kaitlyn Marie
Madisen Maureen Aug 2014
Your freckles remind me of the beautiful constellations.
Connecting to paint lovely portraits in the
midnight sky. Telling stories as the nights grow deep.

12:03 am and people are outside staring up at the sky,
wondering why things are going wrong.
And then they see your stars shining bright;
Giving them hope and lighting up the dark.
- m.s.
sw Apr 2014
I always hated my freckles.
They sat on my face like splattered paint, something everyone noticed. Some girls would gawk at them and I remember thinking, “if only I could peel them off like stickers and give them away.” Their words went in one ear and out the other. My desire to have plain cheeks was screaming so loud I almost couldn’t hear their compliments.
You were different.
It was our first date. I couldn’t keep my eyes off of your perfectly chiseled face and almost missed it when you said, “your freckles.”
I had spent so much time on my hair and choice of clothing, and the one thing you noticed were my freckles. I hoped you wouldn’t talk about how many I had or ask why I even had any or what I did to make them look so faint or—
“They’re extremely cute.”
That’s all it took. My train of thoughts halted on its tracks and might have even started moving backwards in confusion. Your words didn’t go in one ear and out the other. They stayed there and sunk into my head, making themselves at home.
I heard you say these things time and time again, each time only feeling lovelier. You would trace my freckles with the tips of your fingers as you whispered how many beautiful constellations you could make out on my face without having to take a single step outside. You kissed each and every one until you had kissed them all twice and we were laughing out loud. You told me how each one was so lucky to be with me forever and that you could only hope for the same.
Then one day you left without warning. You placed the three bittersweet words on my shoulder and left a kiss on the right corner of my lips, then my cheek. When you kissed my cheek I was only left with my freckles. I was left with me. And just like that, I hated myself again.
I cried like a child that day and the many days that followed.
After a week, I finally got the courage to look myself in the face. I walked into the bathroom and quickly rinsed my puffy face with a cold, wet washcloth. I set it down when I was done and looked up. I saw my cheeks and the constellations you had made up on each side. The memory of you struck the worst kind of pain upon my heart and I broke down for the hundredth time. I looked up to try and see the stars again, but I only saw my tear drops smearing the splattered paint that had been sitting on my face all along. I always hated my freckles.
An old blog post. Not a poem, but hey.
the white deer Jun 2014
every summer, your freckles come out like a broad Irish galaxy.
the planets are summer days that I wish I could waste with you.
and there is a star for every single dance I wish I'd have had with you.
an asteroid belt of insults and haphazard tweets.
but I slide on, a lonely astronaut,
skimming your freckled universe.
Zeeb Jul 2015
Verse I

Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging
A drop of blood the young man spilt
A new part here, and old part… there
A hotrod had been built!
A patchwork, mechanical, quilt

Feeling good.  Head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion.  Sometimes the good feelings would dissipate though, as quickly as they came, as he cursed himself for stripping a bolt, or cursed someone else for selling him the wrong part, or the engineer whose design goals obviously did not consider “remove and replace”.
He cursed the “gorilla” that never heard of a torque-wrench, the glowing particle of **** that popped on to the top of his head as he welded, the metal chip he flushed from his eye, and even himself for the burn he received by impatiently touching something too soon after grinding. 
 He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty – in cramped spaces. One day it was choice words for an “easy-out” that broke off next to a broken drill bit that had broken off in a broken bolt, that was being drilled for an easy-out. 
  Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin.  
Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day.
With hard learned, hard earned expertise and confidence - in this special small place, a supremely happy and excited young man commanded his creation to life.

Threw a toggle, pressed a switch
Woke up the neighbors with that *******

The heart of his machine was a stroked Chevy engine that everyone had just grown sick hearing about.  Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.  “Sir, I don’t want to seem disrespectful, but from what I’ve read in Hot Rod Magazine, you might be suggesting a clearance too tight for forged pistons…” then it would be something else the next day.  
One must always speak politely to the machinist, and even though he always had, the usual allotment of contradictions and arguments afforded to each customer had long run out – and although the shop owner took a special liking to the boy because, as he liked to say, “he reminds me of me”, well, that man was done too.  But in the end, the mill was dead-on.  Of course from the start, the shop knew it would be; that’s almost always the case; it’s how they stay in business - simply doing good work.  Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.  Good times. 
 Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia.  The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the co-workers they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past.  One sign advertises Carter Carburetors and the artwork depicts “three deuces”, model 97’s, sitting proudly atop a flathead engine, all speeding along in a red, open roadster.  Its occupants, a blond haired boy with slight freckles (driver), and a brunette girl passenger, bright white blouse, full and buttoned low. They are in the wind-blown cool, their excited expressions proclaim… "we have escaped and are free!" (and all you need is a Carter, or three).  How uniquely American.

The seasoned old engine block the boy entrusted to the shop cost him $120-even from the boneyard.  Not a bad deal for a good high-nickel content block that had never had its first 0.030”overbore.  In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks by "magnafluxing", measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.  It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.  The engine block was fitted with temporary stress plates that mimic the presence of cylinder heads,  then the cylinders were bored to “first oversize”,  providing fresh metal for new piston rings to work against.  New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required.  Parts were smoothed here and there.  Some surfaces were roughened just so, to allow new parts to “work-into each other” when things are finally brought together.  All of this was done with a level of precision and attention far, far greater than the old “4- bolt” had ever received at the factory on its way to a life of labor in the ¾ ton work van from which it came, and for which it had served so dutifully.  They called this painstaking dedication to precision measurement and fit, to hitting all specifications on the mark, “blueprinting”, and it would continue throughout the entire build of this engine.  The boy remained worried, but the shop had done it a million times.

After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had.   Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.   You can compromise on paint and live with some rust,  he would say, wait for good tires, but never scrimp on the engine.  Right on.  Someone taught the boy right, regardless of whether or not he fully understood the importance of the words he parroted.  His accurate proclamation  also provided ample excuse for the rough, unfinished, underfunded look of the rest of his machine.  But it was just a look, his car was, in fact, “right”.   And its power plant?  Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.  To make that go down easy, they asked to have two of their shop decals affixed to the rod on race-days.  The young man thought that was a fair deal, but the shop was really just looking out for the boy, with their herring of sorts.  
The mill in its final form was the proper balance of performance and durability; and with its camshaft so carefully selected, the engine's “personality” was perfectly matched to the work at hand.   It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower near and at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast.  No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now.  High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit to be released.  On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.  If it hurts your ears, that’s a good feeling.  If its bark startles, that’s a good startle.  A cacophony?  No, the “music” of controlled explosions, capable of thrusting everything and everyone attached, forward, impolitely, on a rapid run to the freedom so well depicted in the ad.  

This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why?  A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet?  A visceral celebration of accomplishment?    Who cares.  Shift once, then again - speed quickly makes its appearance.  It appears as a loud, rushing wind and a visually striking, unnatural view of the surrounding scenery.  At some point, in the sane, it triggers a natural response - better slow down.    

He uncorked the headers, bought gasoline, dropped her in gear, tore off to the scene
Camaros and Mustangs, an old ‘55
Obediently lined-up, to get skinned alive!

Verse II (1st person)

I drove past the banner that said “Welcome race fans” took a new route, behind the grandstands
And through my chipped window, I thought I could see
Some of the racers were laughing at me

I guess rust and primer are not to their taste
But I put my bucks mister in the right place

I chugged/popped past cars that dealers had sold
Swung into a spot, next to something old

Emerging with interest from under his hood
My neighbor said two words, he said, “sounds good”

The Nova I parked next to was “classic rodding” in its outward appearance.  The much overused “primer paint job”.  The hood and front fenders a fiberglass clamshell, pinned affair.  Dice hanging from the mirror paid homage to days its driver never knew, but wished he had.  He removed them before he drove, always.

If you know how to peel the onion, secrets are revealed.  Wilwood brake calipers can be a dead giveaway. Someone needs serious stopping power - maybe.  Generally, owners who have sprung the bucks for this type gear let the calipers show off in bright red, to make a statement, and sometimes, these days, it’s just a fashion statement.  Expensive calipers, as eye candy, seem to be all the rage.  What is true, however, is very few guys spend big money on brakes only to render them inglorious and seemingly common with a shot of silver paint from a rattle can - and the owner of this half fiberglass racer that poses as a street car had done just that.  I'll glean two things from this observation. One, he needs those heavy brakes because he’s fast, and two, hiding them fits his style.  
Really, the message to be found in the silver paint, so cleverly applied to make your eyes simply slide across on their way to more interesting things, was “sleeper”.   And sleeper really means, he’s one of those guys with a score to settle - with everyone perhaps.   The list of “real parts” grew, if you knew where to look.  Looking was something I had unofficial permission to do since my rod was undergoing a similar scrutiny.  
“Stroked?”, I asked.  That’s something you can’t see from the outside. “ No”, my racer friend replied.  
“Hundred shot?”  (If engines have their language, so do the people who love them).   Despite the owner’s great efforts to conceal braided fuel and nitrous lines, electrical solenoids and switches, I spied his system.  The chunks of aluminum posing as ordinary spacers under his two Holly's were anything but.   “No”, was his one-word reply to my 100- shot question.  I tried again; “Your nitrous system is cleanly installed, how much are you spraying?”  “Two hundred fifty” in two stages, he said.  That’s more like it, I thought, and I then figured, he too had budgeted well for the machine shop – if not, he was gambling in a game that if lost, would soon fly parts in all directions.   Based on the overall neat work on display, I believed his build was up to the punishment planned. 
  I knew exactly what this tight-lipped guy was about, seeing someone very familiar in him as it were, and that made the “sounds good” complement I received upon my arrival all the more valuable.  I liked my neighbor.  And I liked the fact of our scratch-built rods having found each other - and I looked forward to us both dusting off the factory jobs.  It was going to be a good day.

The voice on the loudspeaker tells us we’re up.

Pre-staged, staged, then given the green
The line becomes blurred between man and machine

Bones become linkage
Muscle, spring
Fear, excitement

Time distorts ….
Color disappears …
Vision narrows…
Noise ---  becomes music
Speed, satisfaction

Anne Molony Sep 2017
dark brown eyes
which you could easily mistake
for black
from a distance
like she did
when he caught her looking

a perfect, smooth face
not particularly tanned or pale
animated and honest
an open book
sincerely authentic

you can tell exactly what he's thinking from his expression
she likes to think that they share the same thoughts
and that when he looks at her that way
she knows what it means

she likes how
his head falls back when he laughs at something funny
which he's constantly doing
how his body shudders with hysterics
she too can't help but laugh
even when she misses the punchline

and his freckles
she breathes deeply
his skin, peppered with
charming brown little freckles
she wonders what it would be like
to trace their outlines with her fingers

those are the nice kind
she thinks
she wouldn't usually count freckles as
an attractive quality
not like hers
tea-brown stains on chalky skin

but on him, they're lovely
Liam C Calhoun Aug 2015
I’d never noticed the
On your
But then again,
You’d never noticed
The scars.

The ones
On my chest,
And if you had,
I’d never
Anything about them,
Or, “it.”

It had been awhile since we’d
Last crossed paths,
Encounters always
Ending in
And corrosion come the first
Morning after; but welcomed.

You looked good though,
And that’s how it’d always
But beautiful nonetheless  –
A world-weathered skin
In the form of a twilight tan,
The vulnerable smile
With a small curl displaying

Aggressive sexuality,
And a dress, your cloth,
A critical juncture,
Of both cinema and satori,
A’flutter in the wind.
“Gift-wraps,” aside,
I’d always return to the
Form and curve of “You.”

Simply you
The half I could see
Leaving the other
Somehow elusive side of
To my imagination and
Of prior gallantry.

Unspoken words
Pave paths between the
Tables we now occupy.
So to,
Acts of predation await,
Perched and ready for
Accepted, the resulted chaos.

I wonder,
“What’s she thinking?”
As I capture a wink
And steal the sunlight
Bouncing of her
Shoulder’s freckles.
It’s an intoxication
At its finest.

I sip my
And in echoes mumble,
“I want you, want you,
Want you.”
You wanted me too.
Somewhere on a mountain, summer of '99.
Falling words Jan 2015
I started the process of memorizing you today

35 freckles on your right shoulder and a break in the cartilage on your right ear near the top was as far as I got

I think even if I have 100 more years in your arms, I'll never know how many individual hairs you have on your chin or why you sound like you're dying when you sleep

What an exciting thought
To never know all of you

I don't know if your I love you means what it means for me
Someday maybe I will

Or maybe I'll spend my whole life trying
To hear all your thoughts behind
the words
I love you
blankpoems Nov 2013
Love letters to every person who has ever seen the stars as someone's freckles:

1. You were afraid to love him.  It was okay, he did not know much except for demanding what he wanted despite the word "no".
I want you knowing that you deserve better than half *** apologies and snowstorms for white blood cells.

2. She was your first girlfriend.  Her hair reminded you of your mother's curtains in the living room.  Burgundy.  
She loved you but she had to go, I bet you wish you never hung that rope in your basement.

3.  Everything was set on fire, even your lungs.  You started finding ashes everywhere but in your shoes.  Walk away
before she gives you a new meaning for saying grace.

4.  By now you've had enough of religious boys.  And Oh My God, how your hips felt like heaven.
This is all ******* and he always went to church hungover.

5. This time you've forgotten how to sleep without his breath in your ear.  I think his name was Noah or something like that.
It was ironic how he didn't have two dogs, two cats and oh yes, that's right.  He had two lovers.

6.  You went crazy with him, he was so full of water.  You thought you'd drown when he touched you, and you did.

7.  You were so pale that I thought you were dying.  This is a letter to myself to remind me to never fall in love with a boy who cares
more about putting his cigarettes out in public ashtrays than asking me how I take my coffee.
He was extra surprised to learn that I was vegan and only drank water when we sat in cafes.
Jazzelle Monae Jun 2014
I have always been
with the stars
and when I saw
the constellations
speckled across your cheeks
and the bridge of your nose
I found that
was much easier
during daytime
© 2014 by Jazzelle Monae. All rights reserved.
Lynn Al-Abiad Nov 2014
She sees some sort of beauty tainted in the smell of almost a pack of cigarettes.
And little drops of his favorite coffee stained his body and resided as freckles that showed the amount of kisses she would leave on his wild skin - if he'd let her.
His innocence resides in his virility - if virility was ever innocent.
And for him, she is just the portal to heaven to which he holds the key.
And that key itself led him to other heavens, sometimes to a few hells, and some other times to nowhere.
With her, he might go nowhere.
But if she decides to take him on a little trip, his key will lead him to a journey he's never been to - her.

idk Aug 2013
the freckles on your face correspond with the many invasions of emotions contracting one another like the plans spinning around,
day by day and us
not showing much respect
we sit back worrying
trying to cover up our freckles
our insecurities
while we should be trying to preserve,
yet were so clueless with the results
that we love clueless
we love the outcome
Ophelia Jul 2014
I want to spend
The rest of my life
Counting the stars
On your skin
I want to trace
The constellations
Across your body
With mine
I love the stars in your eyes, I wish you could love the black holes in mine
mark john junor Nov 2015
gone into the deepest part
of summer sunshine
where i was blinded to my own heart
all that i have whispered to the darkest of night
hoping to hear answers unique

desperation has no cure
except in the mirror of the minds eye
where the wet soul hungers for light
where the better angels of loves delight wait
like brides to be on wedding mornings
the day dancing before them in beautiful eyes

wait now for the words to come
as easy as they once did
as right as rain
soft wet warm

i have gone into that deepest part of
summer sunshine
i found it while brushing my lips
across the freckles on her shoulder
like a roadmap to heaven
tasting of such bedroom intents
soothing the soul like a dark wine
in moonlight

i have gone into the deepest part
of summer sunshine many times before
lost there in the sweetest moments of deranged thought
where there is no fear
where there is no tears
only the whisper of my lips
on the freckles of her shoulder
Freckles are memories
One big night sky
They all come together to form a life
One constellation
The most important of them all.
And he said that he knows for a fact:
Girls with freckles are happier.

And I told him I’ve heard
That one before,
But he said that he made it up on the spot,
In the bed we’ve made, our sheets less **** –
Creased and dimpled by our weighing bodies –  

When I nagged on him to tell me what he loves
About me on the inside,
Where we’re taught what counts,
Where you’re not allowed to ask,
Where sometimes it’s just too good not to.

On the inside, he listed:
Lungs, liver, ovaries perhaps –
The parts that everyone has,
The parts that can be left unspoken.
And I told him he’s a smart-***.

But on the outside, he touched my cheeks,
I love your freckles because they prove
You’ve lived
Felt the sun on your skin – it’s sunlight sprinkles, after all
Laughed so hard, as they are uneven and all around
That way maybe, every time, your laugh
Scattered them all.
hkr Jun 2013
i want to connect the freckles
on your faceneckshoulderschestarmslegsback
because maybe then i'll know
what love looks like.
i don't love him, but maybe i can learn to.
James Gerard Aug 2013
As you count
The number of
Times the sea
Kisses the shore
I count how many
Freckles I will
Have to kiss
Before my lips and
Your cheeks
Become well
Gabrielle Sep 2023
Your freckles are in all the wrong places,
There should be one on the back of your hand

And one on your knee, a little to the right
That you can see when you sit but not when you stand

He had one on his neck also, I used to trace every day
On the ***** where throat turns to shoulder

Your freckles are wrong, its alright, that's okay
Lets put our clothes back on before we get colder
This poem is about sleeping with a new person after ending a long term relationship.

— The End —