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iridescent Jan 2014
I am clueless as to how I have dug a hole in this concrete ground, 60 feet deep. The dust I’ve been choking on does not bother me no more, layers piling upon my lungs like snow upon an exposed carcass. The slightest upheaval of my chest and tingling in my lungs reminds me that I still breathe. I’ve met scaffolds of bones down here. As I stare into their hollow sockets, I could never figure if they were ever esurient for something I held. They taught me how the ocean is never blue but only a de facto reflection of the sky. They said many mistook the sea for the sky, but never once mentioned the salt that contaminated their lungs-  the impetus that drove their feet 60 steps into the waves. A reconciliation it must have been. I doubt it made any difference, when their hearts were bleeding out; a pity it doesn’t make it any lighter. Down they sank.

I wonder if I mistook these soils for the sky. As I looked up, I realised that the sky only seemed further away. There’s something peculiarly comfortable down here, the little bumps on the walls and contours of the craters looked like jawlines of a new-found friend. The sun is so blindingly high in the sky. I preferred how sometimes I could see the man in the moon- shadows cast by imperfections on the moon’s surface. In the vague moonlight and scrawny silhouettes, the fact that the moon always has a dark side makes it tangible a thousand miles away. Sometimes, I lay on this wooden receptacle discovered upon excavation and gaze at the empty skies with my friend as he tells me what lies outside this trough. Happiness is a pack of hungry wolves and when they are done, you are left with only your marrows. I see things clearer down here, than above where they are smothered by smoke from the trees they burned to the ground. Sometimes the skies are dark with no hint of dusk, sometimes the sky is filled with white nebula; but most of the times, the days are shorter than the nights. But it never gets any darker down here.

I figured I could never mistake this hole for the sky. I was just chasing these broken pieces like I used to chase happiness. I have no idea how I’ve gotten this deep while trying to pick up these pieces that I don’t recognise. But the struggle tells me it’s real, and the pain keeps me awake. They say if you spend enough time with someone, you will fall in love. I guess that’s what happened between sadness and me.

I’m staying here.
hannah Sep 2014
the halls are filled with
awkward jawlines,
the smell of cigarette smoke
and strong perfume used by the
girls with blue eye shadow,
"hurry up!"
"ew who are you?"
"*** did u see what shes wearing?"
the noisy classroom seems to
just stare judging everyone in
its path,
"im sorry okay im just trying to fit in"
"that's the problem your not trying hard
enough"
you see i don't like school, but hey
who doesn't but my reasons a
little bit different, i want to
study, learn some new math but
can i take out these disgusting
judgmental people and maybe
i'd start liking school.
h.d.
Katharine Kvh May 2012
Bathtubs don’t work for quantum suicide
But every time I take one,
A part of me dies

What was nice under the crescent aglow?
Drunk on stars, or the moon lit show…

Ash of night, cradled what was once mine,
The repertoire of ever-syncing- jawlines.
Puissant is the chalice, its exaltation shined so bright,
Bestowed liberation underneath the chatoyant light,

The open windows left  niveous  fogs-
Breathed -stained –air,  against crystal *****.


Alive and one, under the entire earthly tempo,
Together left her organic imprints of art nouveau.
Beneath the warmth and petrichor ground,
The Lord and Lady commence to be crowned.
...Tree roots sink as veins of gods.
The serpent whispers his mellifluous facade...


The sharp shove of love’s first arrow
Lover’s spit, a seed for cupid’s bucolic furrow.
Scripture of Solomon’s *** temple of doom
All within the nicotine-stained-blue-infrared-bedroom,

Velvet allure, bellies of vigor,
The cold point, the pulled trigger.
Dance of Thelma, ancient cults of non-lovers
Feasting north, under the Horned God’s antlers.
The concoction of the widow’s deviated lust
Skins alive, the excited wolf-mans’ husk…

The gun’s mouth ex hailed bullets of smoke
Piercing hot wounds became tender lilts in up word strokes.
Still, they brought, perforating ice knives through the chest
Catching fades perpetually, just until two came abreast.
The shadow dalliance and hair pulls leave those weary,
The anise flower seeds sanction the suffering query.

What was once so beautiful at night?
Forgotten, as I turned red-haired-heathen in morning’s sight

So I take my hot bath, inure in my offing.
Emollient paean of the porcelain,
...which is my skin
See you, my ethereal being,
In short time spring will be fleeting
How funny is it when you write something and don't think about what your putting words into?,  then you read it,  like , ..."oh ****... that *is* what it means". It's a deep look into one's psyche,. sometimes fun and just  utterly depressing to analyze. writing is selfish
M May 2014
that's it again
the artistry of the curling hell
the mark of what was destroyed
and for some reason used as a metaphor for life
I look in the mirror and I see long, lean, noble
like a greek god, or goddess, someone gender ambiguous
with hair framing my face and jawlines ever reaching up
my body is beautiful and I shouldn't destroy it
I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
like whitman,
there is this strange dark attraction to
standing somewhere leaning against the wall
with my hood up as I watch the stars become clouded
and that warm friendly scent fills my clothes where no one wants to go
it's like a forest, a forest of embraces and thistles
something tragic and suave and slenderly beautiful
the workers in the yard light up daily
just like my sister when she's hanging out
always happy
or my grandfather on his patio with the parrot on his shoulder.
he lets her drink coffee sometimes,
and lets me drink in the air of his breath mingled with ash always.
I am the rolled tobacco, just ready to be lit, inhaled, and blown away
flammable, quick to go,
filtered, my body a slim cylinder,
the heat at the end catching the eye of children
I want to be united with that which I personify,
unhealthy, but **** cool looking.
It wouldn't surprise anyone-
where there's smoke, there's fire, they say;
maybe that's why I've always wanted a cigarette.
buy me a pack and I'll love you forever
Mollie Grant Feb 2016
We all want to be someone
carved into stone—
assured in our identity
by the admirer taken enough to
etch our jawlines into eternity
from the heart
of a marble slab.

If you work on me as Michelangelo,
I will proudly stand as your David.
Martin Narrod Mar 2016
The saddest day, it was yesterday.
Smoky sullen pushy congested lightless sky day.
Wrecked and weathered, gluey, obtuse and penned with
Melancholy and wanton desire. Wanting on and selling off

The Vampires and wretched thieves hibernating back in coach,
Seated in peacock-scoundrel dress. There's was the rudimentary
Yet pertinent foulness of childlike hatred, but they wore it under
Coarsely fitting suits to cover their hefty bags of ginormous fat.

Fatty ***** to scrutinize. Fatty ***** to wallow in the throes of
Dark fatty dementia.
Purses of alabaster filled with hemoglobin. Obfuscating zilch.
Scurvy on the arms, reptiles in their ears, and a million miles of
Stenchy, noisome, in glut. Wallowing, heavy and anti-professional.

Loff-less, un-catchy, unkempt, and in a clamor.
Boarish and obtrusive.
Gushy of anguish and the uncomfortable hide of rhino
Replaced for the swill excrement vetted porcine hocks of a
Kaleidoscope rich, aftermarket slug-pact for the bowels of
This century's egoes. Heavy on the cheeses, Cheetos, and Pathos.

In the hutch, a gaily brimming sunswept valley chimes
With the fruitful gaiety around the crowned Pantone TX1333 and Sienna heads that does keep. Homes are heavier, heaving the shrills.
Archaic muted cries of childhood, upsetted tummies serving at the Sighs of Lucifer. There are scoundrels here and in the underwear and in The water and under the water.

Frogs moo, chimney's weep, most other's Mother's have done true **** Jobs keeping their reared up to par with the others to avoid being Other'd. And our own language isn't being kept. It's undoing itself atop The bridges of mouths and the ridges of jawlines, and they have faded Swiftly, and no surrogate or custodial colloquialism has lived up to the Shadows and forethought of our greatest grandparents. And what has Your Jesus brought you except uncertainty, foul-play, and foul players And despondent and boarish chicas.

So now there you have this: brevity.
Another soft-tipped dactylic hand for undertaking.
By the end of days there will be the licking of butts,
Poor movies with Salma Hayek, and the lot of children's books
No children, not even these triplets will remember their fine names:

Tee, Bee, and Cee.
Crocus and sourdough lilies
Brimming over the nostril opera's of
These adopted gospels.
Only the ramparts of our literary apartheid and totally ******
Sexualness in kids and dults of all ages.
Grade A slovenly scholars
In agreement that we're ******* over tomorrow.
brooke Mar 2012
I fall in love with faces
down cliffs, down jagged seaside heights
strewn on the rocks, sunbathing on jawlines
pulled taut in sharp angles that cut my fingers
have you ever fantasized about the way
his lips would fall op en?
(c) Brooke Otto
A Jul 2013
Her face is a continent
Her eyes are algae-brimming lakes swirled with sunlight
In their centre dark pools, you could dive for eternity
Tanned skin spans vast distances
And freckles mark capital cities
Her smile causes earthquakes but there is no one there to mind
Fine laughter lines form ridges that will later form mountain ranges
Degeneration will take over
Sharp cheekbones and smooth jawlines
Lose definition and second glances
A sea of fine hair, once a deep gold
Fades to grey and grows brittle with age
Time takes it's toll
It happens to all of us
But her eyes remain fathomless
brooke Feb 2014
I used to like when he hugged me outside my car for
four minutes, how he wouldn't let me leave even if it
was cold outside and i was only wearing flip-flips, always
after our lips were red and chafed and my hair was a god-awful
mess on my head,

I used to like it when he listened to odd future, when he complained
about how ugly he was when I knew he was beautiful, how he was
worried that I would care that his skin was rough, that his skin was rough
that his skin was rough, but I loved his textures, his angles, his curves, never
smooth, never flat skin.

I used to like his baby cheeks and defined jawlines, how nothing ever mixed
with him, but he was milk and paint and oil. Baked potatoes with broccoli and
thyme, rosemary cloves.

I can't point out where all these things ended.

When I started to complain when he held me for too long in front of the door because
I told him he couldn't hold me in front of the car anymore. It was too cold.
When did my lips starting staying pink instead of red, when did
my hair start staying perfect, when was the last time I had held his hand
without being afraid of some boring, ridiculous reason, when was the last
time I laid in bed with him when was the last time I thought that he was the
best thing to ever happen to me, where do these thoughts go?

Overthinked, thanked, thunked? Did I wear beyond use, does my love have
an expiration date?
(c) Brooke Otto 2014

This has been in my drafts for awhile, I like it more now. December 20th.
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
I guess I don't exactly know what I want to be
I don't know what I think the definition of physical beauty is
Because there are people I see with very flouncy curly and glistening golden blonde hair
Then I see Asian girls with their glossy raven black locks
I see girls with STUNNING blue eyes
And girls with magnificent hazel eyes
I see two of my friends who have brown eyes like me, only they have these BEAUTIFUL maple eyes
I see girls with heart-shaped jawline
I see girls with rounder jawlines
I see girls with tiny waists
And curvy girls
I see girls with cute little smiles
And bright, wide grinning smiles
ALL OF THEM ARE SO BEAUTIFUL
I don't even know WHAT I want to be
I just know that I wish there were a celebrity
Who existed
Who was WILDY adored and loved by everyone
Who was successful and never criticized
Who was not necessarily UGLY
But was undeniably not particularly traditionally physically pretty
But her soul was LOVELY
Her personality was imperfect
And she ******* up
But she was still a GOOD PERSON
and her values and what was inside her was what made her so globally popular
Because maybe if I stopped seeing everybody as so unbelievably BEAUTIFUL
then I would stop CARING that I was so hideous
I just really wish
"Pretty" didn't have a definition
But varied
You could look at someone
And what each person found pretty
Was COMPLETELY different
because I care way too much
because I hate hearing that I am "pretty" when I so clearly am not
but it's even worse when I hear that I'm not
Or if someone edges around it by saying: But you are a beautiful person INSIDE
avoiding admitting that I'm ugly
I hate hearing about how ugly I am
because it reminds me
but I also hate hearing about how supposedly "pretty" I am
because immediately in my head
that little voice that sounds exactly like my own
except very cruel and sadistic
The mean-streak part of me
It whispers in my mind
THEY ARE LYING TO YOU
YOU ARE UGLY AND HIDEOUS
AND NO ONE IS EVER GOING TO CARE ABOUT WORTHLESS YOU.
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT WHAT SOCIETY DEFINES AS PRETTY
YOU ARE WORTHLESS AND UGLY.
DON'T LISTEN TO THEIR PROMISES THAT YOU ARE PRETTY
BECAUSE YOU ARE NOT.
that is all I hear in my head.
or if I hear OH BUT YOU ARE A BEAUTIFUL PERSON INSIDE THAT IS MORE IMPORTANT
the voice whispers: did you recognize that? Hear it? See it?
They specifically avoided saying you were physically pretty
So whether they are right or not about what is more important, inner or outer beauty
They have still admitted to you
In an underhanded way
That you ARE ugly
they have confirmed what I have always told you
YOU ARE NOT PRETTY
YOU NEVER WILL BE
and do you know what?
I don't care anymore about what is important
I want to be physically beautiful
It's like when you just really want cake
it might be unhealthy
It might not matter
It isn't good to obsess over
but you JUST WANT IT
you want it so badly
and you can't function properly without it
until you have that desire given in to
but I can't tell them that anymore
so they don't have to lie to me to spare my feelings which makes me feel awful
or so they don't have to be honest and either tell me I'm ugly or edge around it by bringing up inner beauty and using a BUT before it
because that makes me feel even WORSE
I will not talk about it anymore
I will just let it dominate my poetry
because I must write
I must WRITE to keep it from consuming me
that is all I have
If I can't speak of the pain anymore
I must write.
that is my escape.
feel free not to read this. it is pretty **** long and mostly it is just me needing to get something out. it's really just my form of release, not for it to be actually GOOD poetry. because it is really not. but if you can relate then hey, great :)
yeah... I don't know what is wrong with me.
Chrissy Feb 2010
Do you even know
what beauty is?
Beauty is
collarbones
jawlines, cheekbones
shoulder blades, spines
hipbones and fingertips
Beauty is
everything that can
be broken
Beauty is
when your lips are bruised
your eye is swollen
your skin is dry and
used
Beauty is
someone that can
make you squirm
because
they are just skin and bones
yet there is something
hauntingly lovely
about them.
So they cut
These words
Like the blade that sung your melody
As you cast it from your razor
Or your plethora of phrases
Come backs
Snarky remarks
And stainless steel
Like frost bitten angels we wail
And spit words like knives
If insults could sever arteries
We'd be less
Left
For dead
So we cut
With shaking hands and quivering jawlines
We cut with our moms good sewing scissors
And bitter cusses
And self defecating tunes
To save our souls from being cut by someone else
We are our own
Worst enemy
Maddy Feb 2018
As protruding collar bones
and hip bones
and ribs

As hunger
and money
and happiness

As knowledge
and wonder
and sadness

As crop tops
and skinny jeans
and piggyback rides

As thigh gaps
and dainty hands
and jawlines

But
I am not beautiful

I do not have bones that push so far out of my skin
That they tower above skyscrapers

I do not have size 00 jeans
or 32 A cup bras

I do not have a scale that doesn't sigh
when I step on it daily

No
I am not beautiful

I was taught I am ugly
I am a pig
I am the definition of repulsive

Beauty is taught
And so is self hatred
This one isn't really put together because I just came up with it. I stepped on my scale this morning and was seriously considering grabbing a pair of scissors and going at my stomach. So instead, I made tea, I did some homework, ate an apple, and wrote this. Have fun with this emotional *****!
Avegail Marie Dec 2015
mama warned me about the missiles
whose streaks resemble
pasty fingers of thoughts with
ill intentions.

jawlines layered with grassy residue,
a time bomb—
tick tock ticking throughout
a timely test.

silly me,
sentimental turnstiles turned back in time and
an eruption of vivid green
internally bleeding.

melancholy magnolias blooming
behold.
shadows capture my
gentrified façade
in our yellowed mellowed atmosphere.

morning bells
delight the Sapphic sleeper,
but not
the creature of the night.

enchanted amongst
the vulnerable,

beautiful,
beyond,
belief.

citadels built from bedframes,
trailing magazines
of livid dreamers
and adolescent ideas—
not an isolated incident.

mama warned me about clasping wrists
and bruised collarbones
replaced with titanium plates.

dandelion fuzz fraught with
five o’ clock shadow,
a delightful daze—
distraction.

fluid familial instinct,
virtually incapable of
****** affection.

riotous, rugged, risky.
backbone crooked
rickety.

knuckles lined up in reverse
chronological,
no,
alphabetical,
no,
circumstantial
order­.

petrifying wisps of morning’s light,
sacrificial intents of starry nights.

bruised knees and white thighs
bruised words and white lies
bruised hellos and white goodbyes.

superficial daydreams
mistaken for junkyard radiators
and the little engine
that could not.

singing birds shot out of the twilight sky,
and the red rush of accomplishment
tip-toeing towards the truth.

skipping stones disturb
the salmon’s
cove while

my butterfly’s monarchy
is out of order.

mama warned me of backfiring cannons
with delayed reactions,
laughing at the purple pigeons
who can sing the swan’s song.

cyclical and cynical
cried the weary modem.
awe inspired anticipation
set against relations.

table tennis played
with a chocolate chip,

curled eyelash confusion,

and I can’t touch my toes.

mama warned me about big guns
that don’t fire,
about broken rigs
that insist you go higher.

a projectile clock haunts my memories.

forbidden animosity plagues
the higher order,
consistently screaming
take me! biblically.

a rocket launcher versus
your catapult,
a millennium of thought
discredited.

stained tablecloths of mutiny
and sin.

an uproar of the masses threaded
between frosty fingers, and
his lullaby?
her nightmare.
a song of Peaceful Persuasion.

mama warned me about loose ends
and splitting ties,
or was it split ends
and loose ties?

belligerent invitations disguised as
fruitful farewells.
a thought for the reckoning—
mistaken mothers made merciless,
warning bells, or
morning bells?

flawed and broken tattooed
on ivory skin.
ebony lost and confused,
cracks against its own nature

wind the winding wind,
explicitly innocent—
masochism foretold.

evergreen amongst the sunrise,
pitiful playthings
strewn across the floor.

****** screams
piercing my skin,
a call for help seldom answered—
tectonic plates.

**mama didn’t warn me with her words.
Kay Ireland Apr 2016
I wish I had never met you.

You are Apollo, Zeus, and Hercules. You are midnight lullabies. You are drunken fists turned to open hands. You are the one constant presence in hotel rooms in Barcelona, Ibiza, Budapest, New York, everywhere. You are bloodied lips. You are gentle kisses. You are post-nightmare reassurance. You are a bullet to the head. You are toppled sandcastles on Massachusetts shores. You are white walls. You are the brightness of a phone screen in a dark room. You are a bruise that doesn’t go away. You are cold, rosy cheeks. You are morning coffee. You are yellowed pages of forgotten books. You are razor-burned jawlines. You are the crack of billiard *****. You are the hand on my knee beneath the table. You are the moon flooding through thin curtains. You are phantom limbs. You are a foreign name on a foreign tongue. You are the sunrise. You are a memory that doesn’t fade. You are every ******* poem I write.

I wish I had never met you.
baby Oct 2014
A time zone
The days tick by
The flights are scary infinite
Minute after minute
Writhing with nerves

A photograph
A memory
I don't care to remember
Lines I won't draw
Jawlines bloodied

A sickness
The cold fingers
Leeching warmth
From my tongue and forehead
The batteries?

A mechanism
The monotony
Robotic fear
Trembling at the fingertips
Cogs wound up

A shipwreck
Thrashed sails
Little pieces dashed against
The cold numb rocks
Consuming rain

A barrel
Made of steel
Hollowed out and rusted
Wind through the holes
An ember

An oil drum
Fragile metal
Skin braces for impact
A fire in my belly
Catastrophe
loisa fenichell Feb 2015
The ghost boys howled like loons. The ghost boys
had bodies that twisted away without warning, bodies
that forgot to root themselves down anywhere,
unless they were rooting their hands down onto skin
without warning. When I was younger I scraped my hand
onto my pronounced clavicle. My initial reaction was to bleed.

You loved the girls that lined the public bathrooms. They had
brown hair that reached down to their jawlines and they
filled the gaps and the gums of their teeth with orange juice,
to raise their blood sugar, after they vomited, after the cuts
appeared on their faces (doctors’ orders). Their cuts
curved outwards like fields of orchids. Back then, standing with them,
my stomach was sharp as a state I’d never been to.

I’d never been to Georgia, with its strong heat.

Your face in a dramatic bed is not without heat. I am not cold. I was born
in the state far north of here, the state with the birds (flycatchers, kingbirds,
vireos) and the gas station. The gas station never caught on fire, although
I had a dream of you in my bed: in it you were on fire,

the fire mixed with heartburn. Quickly you turned into my grandfather.
My grandfather liked to sit in his brown wool armchair
and smoke pipes and eat black currant pie and listen to Merle Haggard
on the record player, in the wooden house, next to the lake that in late
December rippled with waves. Grandfather died in December.

I still don’t know how to have dreams in black and white.
I don’t know how to lucid dream, either.

Your body, no matter what, mixes with shadow.
walkingtrxgedy Jun 2014
He'd say to me, "What if I died right now? What would you do?"
  In those seconds, between his question and my answer, they thoughts that ran through my mind were endless.

  I'd think, if you were to die right now, I would take take my life and easy last 1…2…3 breathes next to your corps, that way, our souls would be aligned and we would inevitably be together for always and eternity during life after death. Our shadows would be able to run free against the wind and we wouldn't have to worry about anything except our locking lips and dare to stare into each others eyes and baby everything, will be okay.

"What if I died right now? What would you do?"

  If you were to die right now, I would turn mute. For I do not want to speak the words of my mind if your name will be brought up constantly and I refuse to let the words of love and passion exit my lips if it is not towards you because mama told me never to lie, and I will not to the boys and to the men who say those words the way you once did and I. I would rip off the bracelet I made for you but never gave and never lay a hand on your sweatshirt ever again for the gorgeous scent of you would make me sick to my ******* stomach. I would shred any poem ever written in my notebook with the mention of your name, your laugh, your eyes, and your stupid, awkward ******* walk with anger and dismay. I would cut part of your body ever inked with your name in ballpoint pen with the blade hidden deep inside the walls of my pencil sharpener.
  Because you, are like the rain I adore so much in May and the reason I did not stop myself from breathing on nights that I felt so alone.

"What if I died right now? What would you do?"

  If you were to die right now,I would take the bus to the homes of the girls who 'cared for you' and I would kiss them. I would kiss their mouths, cheeks, jawlines, stomach, thighs, nose and arms so hard with my fist! They pretended to care about you when they never loved you! They never loved you like I loved and still love you! Nobody has ever and will never love you the way I do!

And I hope you know, that the reason I do not compliment you daily is because I'm not sure whether to start from top to bottom or bottom to top. I would try to make it easier and compare you to the most beautiful thing in the world but how do you compare you to yourself, I don't get it!

Would would I do if you died right now?!
I would loose my ******* mind because if such a magnificent crystal as yourself dies then why should somebody like me, so much as a pebble, deserve to live?!

What made you think that I was prepared for this question?!
What made you think that I was prepared to even think about loosing you?!

Dear; You,
   I get it that you and I did not last forever, but I cannot stand up to that ******* reality and face the fact that I already lost you!


So please, do not as me questions such as "What if I died right now what would you do?"


Because I have no idea
it starts off with a new face, intricate details, sharp jawlines, eyes so brown they speak to you without him ever having to open his mouth, lips so pink they're ready to show you what you've never been shown before

shot one, the eyes look deeper, emotions get elevated, suddenly the melody becomes easier to follow and your body loosens

shot two, he gives you the look you know too well, and you smile because you know that's all you needed

shot three and you aren't strangers anymore, pushed against a club wall, tongues intertwined in a melody only your heart knows how to describe, your brain not thinking because what would it say other than love is falling in love with strangers for the night to fill something that can't seem to be filled, stranger after stranger after stranger
Martin Narrod Feb 2014
some August, July, or September. Some ordinary bliss, a magic. Your annual short-fall. An epitome, that overcomes, the hate in register octave. Time to rearrange the furniture. By now you should have found things to do at night, or Jesus. In the bedrooms where the moon men climb and claw. You are frazzled by sheets and pillow cases. The river rooks, your yellow shirt and blue jeans too. Them too. So many months have passed, so far as I could count, those moments when we grew so farther apart, or those moments, when we so closely grew together. That either, our choice of ice cream flavor became the same, or by a standard we resented the same kind of person, or on some eve not.

That it could make me shake, and sometimes even in the advesperating light I could see bits of your face in the wood paneling of my basement bedroom, or in the dissipating smoke of a cigarette I could make out a part of your cheeks and chin and nose. The small nose that I picked every chance I got. Lovely hatred, the glaring eyes you rattled me with or the sad letters and phone calls and your voice singing on my answering machine but then asking, inquiring to me. It's four in the morning and you're asking questions and I'm not speaking, my back arched and my legs and arms wrapped into my gut in the corner of the room, at the corner of my bed- that I could not April the 4th name the songs that you worshipped, if any, for tonight I could mention the acutely impossible grief, calls from the miserably disappointed. And ***** the rooms, those chairs of annoying, repetitive do-gooders, all of you, babbling buffoons in the pews and in the basements. The sides of your triangle softening into a mush, that you can't even keep your jawlines in focus. I hate you. That you could not even bare the inscription of an honesty so pronounced that it would unlock you from your tyranny of the eyes trailing off into space and nothingness, or follow the lines from the heft of your baited breaths, cold, hard *******.

There is good reason I am not god. I would spite the self-smitten, and helve the world inside out of your glory hole opus and irresistibleness. But should our letters over shine our bits, that we have lived our great adventures over, it would not be enough for me. And had you been shown the lives of our shadows, or could you not seize the light which has found you. I never forgave you, and instead, peeled my eyes back into my dry estate. Something more than every chance that was shucked from your pallid, mortal form. You were the life inside me and the words that ebbed from my infernal sores

I just wanted to make an art house out of popsicle sticks, a room out of acorns and limes. That maybe when you made your fashion dreams announced and I believed, that I could say ha-ha. An abundant melancholy shaped to a disparate creature shagged by a monster toiled in his rag and repugnance. I could have been alone in New England shaping the world on cobblestone streets, or say, kissing an hour in an airport parking garage gleefully strapped with excite and eagerness. Maybe I was just alone. Out of every postcard that I ever sent, giant quaffs of pink sugar, a clutch of headless penguins, the Newport Coast tide, that I could never be your prize and climb out to escape with you from your pain.
some scraps of notes i found on an old phone and put together
serendipity Nov 2014
You sleep and deep silence creeps over me
But i can feel shivers and shimmies from your dreams
Electrified fibers of my being flinging on fractions of moonlight off your lips
I wonder if you can feel how much I want you
Temptations matched with trepidation your touch has a reputation for creating some powerful feelings
And im just to weak to work with the urges that make me wish you didnt have to work in the morning
Baby Its to much to muster the strength to restrain myself, feathered fingers light to the touch wont hurt much
But im a little desperate
Your bed head is turning me on and if i give in it wont take long
I can already see it
Chest to chest my index fingers  on your neck
Tracing lines laced with lust from your eyes to your ears lips to locks as your eyes flutter in the midst
Counting eyelashes caressing jawlines im intrigued and allured by your lips
Dream out Loud Jun 2015
In my fathers hands he holds
my future, my past, my present
He holds my aspirations and my hope
He holds me, my world
On the burden of a thousand centuries
Our father, and our fathers father. Farther back
They all have a common thread
They did anything and everything for their children
Protected us faithfully yet showed us the world
He showed us that hard work gets you anywhere
Freely he shares words of wisdom
And seldom does he spare his love
Oh father, never turn your gentle cheek.
Oh and don't straw to far into the jawlines of despair.
For i am following behind you slowly , steady and quiet
Don't tread too disatrously into the frills in the drops of sweat that crease upon your brow after a hard day of work
Please don't forget that i am watching every step you take so that i can follow the same
My little feet and impressionable brain can only move so fast
Ad i mature and grow into a teen then adult i continue to follow and learn
to watch your scraped hands never leave
AND SO ODE To you on your own special day. For being there and everywhere else at the same time. My feet and hands are sure to do the same. Thanks dad.
Happy fathers day!
Robert C Ellis Nov 2016
Ariel ruins, the left foot to lead the dance
Spiral, laughter; the endless
Chance
Water crests, the deck boards ache
And the jawlines clinch
Death will have to wait
Emma Estrada Sep 2018
Crying. Hoping . Praying. Always crying. Trying to throw up because it fulfills me.
While society fills my head with what makes you beautiful.
Beauty: the size of your clothes not your heart.
Looking at the list of requirements.
Thigh gaps, long legs, the jawlines.
My tears.
I look at myself in a broken mirror to see a shattered girl.
Detached. Distorted
Innocence stolen by the idea of looking like an hourglass
Longing to see my ribcage, praying for mercy from my own thoughts.
Not looking like the models in the magazines.
Girls dying to be thin.
Being one of those girls.

I start to count the calories
Water.
Water is safe.
Maybe that’s why i feel safe crying.
Drowning in my own tears.
It’s silent.
No one can hear my cries for help.
Girls dying from disorders. Their own thoughts killing them.
Confidence deteriorating.
Beautiful is no longer a harmless desire, it’s a perilous necessity.
Flat stomachs, large measurements, full lips.
More tears

Tears relieving the hunger.
Masking the pain with a smile.
Empty smiles, empty stomachs.
Beautiful.
It’s all worth it as long as I’m beautiful. Right?
I stare at the naturally skinny girls in envy.
Naturally beautiful.

My mind begins to wonder.
Wondering why they decided to make me like this.
Why wasn’t I born beautiful?
Was I not good enough?
As an unborn child, did they decide I wasn’t worthy of being beautiful?
It wasn’t fair.
It’s never been fair.
If I’m not destined to be beautiful, why am I here?
What’s my purpose?
To die?
To cry myself to sleep every night, while my mind tears itself apart.
No. No more tears.
I refuse to let myself fall into a bottomless pit because they decided I wasn’t worthy of beauty.
So what?
I’m not meant to be beautiful.
I’m meant to be inquisitive, inventive, intelligent.
All of that put together is my own beautiful.
Andie Sep 2018
New Faces spin around my head, up and down
sharp jawlines, chiseled bodies, lips stained with fresh blood
a new one
long hair and soft curves, feel a ghostly hot breathe and you know
here we are, spinning around together, orbiting, vibrating
an old one
but a new one is all we need to forget an old one
ye olde stars always die, though not before we've found a new one
that's why the implosion hurts a little bit less
Surbhi Dadhich Nov 2018
Nothing seems giantly huge
When your toothless grin eludes
My chronic adversities
After iconic, clownish endeavor
Our curtains, veils shattered
You anticipated me with lionese furore
I reckon it's highly due still
I prospered, pay due honour
Against the backdrop of your highly- awaited grin
Nothing truly seems monstrous huge
When your jawlines extend
Douse off my chronic inconsideration
My chronic adversities
While you shower herculean ecstasy..
Nicole Apr 2021
my love weaves a tapestry to your heart
each stitch, an eternal memory
of delight in another

an embrace leading to a smile
of beauty in the fabric, yours
and mine to behold

softness of hands, fingertips touching
tender caresses on jawlines
sparking deep feelings

strength in our bond, carried in years
ebbing and flowing as one
adoration in affection

words and whispers in devotion
threads binding together
a language of ours alone
Dedicated to my one...
Michael Stefan Jan 2021
We all stood at battlements,
And frontline racetracks
Preparing for the longest night
When we would kiss our mothers
And say our prayers,
Hoping to be ushered
Into a brilliant light,
So bright it cleans the soul

Taut muscles and furrowed brows,
Aching with the weight,
And slick with burning sweat-
Bourne under my burden
We all stared hard-
Into the face of hate
For a government that told us nothing
And said, "You gotta fight."

Brothers and sisters stood strong-
Strongest thing you ever saw
Each of them made
Of sterner stuff
They draped that uniform
On mountains made of duty
And jawlines set-
Of utter determination

And yet,
I buckle-
Praying for the support
Of my sisters and brothers,
The comfort of the desert sands-
Whilst I wither beneath the gaze
Of a woman who's coffee order
Did not contain almond milk-
Like the end of the world rested on the edge of her cup...
I did want this to be a little humorous but still speak to the camaraderie and sacrifice that each person in the military makes.  We go through so many hard situations that we never prepare for the simple frustrations of a normal life.  Then BAM!  You are hit in the face by situations you never thought you would see.  Situations the average person doesn't bat an eye at.

— The End —