"maquillage" poems
You are
You are
a chiseled statue
a myth, animated under my gaze
tangible flesh under my hands
out of my closeted mind
you are
you are
in essence, a beautiful mirror
of a beautiful essence
For Adonis, I come to understand
my feelings are lulled under your tongue
patience
as my blind senses seek them out
you are
you are
a silent strength
owning to yourself
must I thank
you
this dance
of serpents of ether
smoothing feathery scales over the riddling bones of Lilith
I owe this response to you
For the things you stand for, the truth under which a fined tooth comb scrutinizes
grasps of tickling warm fire conjure my intentions
I am a smooth stone, burning by the illicit form and desire of this worldly hearth
under my arms you reach and you soothe
this idea from the small of my back, out of reach
I walk my thoughts further away from you
to objectify the sensations that pursue
Eros draws
his serrated arrow tip alongside my cool unassaulted skin
should I linger here, I'll find it sheared
and my sanctity tampered
use this silence to displace this feeling from outside of me
so I can take my leave
lay frozen still as I divulge and lavish upon you my disgusting intentions
to my absence
so I can leave
and rid myself of uncharacteristic traits
tempting
butterfly wings fluttering against the underside of my skull
I am not tempted
I do not regress
Eros is unwelcome here
when he speaks of this particular entity
under his outstretched upper lip
I am enraged
what can a boy-youth know of the complexities of the feminine spirit
to which the heart works in unison
my feelings are my own, in a shallow drawer where they aren’t tosseled
arent felt
I may feel the warmth of them under my desk
but I refuse to eye the key
where do you get the audacity
to touch and give advice to one as old as me
my feelings belong to me
not the wild underside of a rooting pig
hunt them mercilessly with your arsenal instead
as your mother-Aphrodite
inspires their sloshed pursuit of an obscured truth
put your maquillage on them
and clear your mind of mischievous foolishness
or vain undersanding
May 12, 2013
May 12, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
She is the stained girl, a diffident dreamer
Who looks for the sun and the rain together
Her panache is to craft blissful memories
Festooned with vivid thoughts, her accessories
She is the stained girl, a feeble believer
Who relies on a happy ever after
Yet scared to be seen from her cheerful facade,
Something that would charge her of being a fraud
She saunters in the midst of the piqued storms
Resounding the hues of the jaundiced norms
Like a bird highlighted with vibrant plumes
To fly around the walls of perplexing rooms
She wears the best maquillage, old and new
To make everyone away from being blue
She offers her hair, those gilded strands
Yet they exploit her gift with their vicious hands
She is the stained girl who seeks for uprightness
Yet pain has shaped her with creased faithfulness
In front of a looking glass, there I see
That magnificent, stained girl looks like me.
Mar 18, 2016
Mar 18, 2016 at 9:53 AM UTC
Comment est ce pour le début parfait à votre mardi?Uber - magnifique détails .les murs du Belmont Center et une robe BHLDN qui vous coupera le souffle briques apparentes .Un combo assez étonnant .non?Eh bien.c'est exactement ce que nous avons pour vous aujourd'hui.un amour - fest romantique conçu par Sara Gillianne Mariages \u0026Événements et capturé en belles images par Jessi Field.Voir tous ici .\u003cp\u003e
un film fou frais de
http://modedomicile.com
chrisdscott Photographie ?Oui robe ceremonie fille .s'il vous plaît.S'il vous plaît mettre à jour votre browserColorsSeasonsFallSettingsUrban SpaceStylesRomanticRustic Elegance
" La maison est où notre amour réside ; Quatre murs .deux coeurs . "
Cela a commencé comme un simple vision dans ma tête .comme je l'imagine la plupart le font .Il est spécial pour moi que parce que mon inspiration robe de mariée courte vient de ma propre relation .Comme une famille de militaires .nos racines sont là où nous avons planté nos pieds .Cela change souvent dans cette situation .Accueil devint où nous nous sommes retrouvés .aussi longtemps que nous étions ensemble .C'est cette notion romantique qui m'a gardé à la terre et est le même que celui qui a inspiré ce tournage .Parfois .tout ce que vous avez vraiment besoin est amour robe ceremonie fille ( et quatre murs ) pour être vraiment «maison».
L'équipe réunie pour ce tournage était tout simplement incroyable .C'était comme des étoiles alignées et tout était comme nous l'avions espéré dans le processus de planification .
Ce tournage était vraiment un rêve devenu réalité pour moi .et j'aime que j'ai eu l' occasion de montrer notre talent local.
Photographie : Jessi Field | Cinématographie : chrisdscott Photographie | Conception de l'événement: Sara Gillianne Mariages et Evénements | Fleurs : Supposey florale de mariage | robe : BHLDN | gâteau de mariage: Kiley Sellette | Réception Lieu: Le Centre Belmont | Maquillage: SarahPeake | cheveux : Maxine Lyvers | Articles faits à la main : Déclarations YOUnique | Hommes : Tenue de soirée de Gent | Modèle: Haven Turner | Modèle: Landon Tewers | Locations Vintage : hemstitch Location de cruBHLDN est un membre de notre Look Book .Pour plus d'informations sur la façon dont les membres sont choisis .cliquez ici
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 10:27 PM UTC
i
In the impossible
I hath found the possible
As her education is far from
Terrestrial proficiency.
ii
In the death I dieth daily
She's mine starchild baby
As her gushing decorum
Is a forum to all saint's and good Samaritan's.
iii
She outdoes any in beauty
None doth cometh close
She's alive yet a ghost
Soo miraculously she sketches her maquillage.
iv
Her life-force is astounding
Spanish lingo of her's so attracting
Mine thirst for her is abounding
As a suckling I çryeth when she goeth away......
v
She maketh all nightmare's leave
Tis its her I am, tis she's me
Like a trapped bird, she set's me free
How daily do I wait her empress call to her throne!!!
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Elsa angelica dedication
Jul 14, 2015
Jul 14, 2015 at 12:55 PM UTC
Day old tea: still, stale.
Smeared maquillage in loveless,
Melancholy ruin.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 9:09 PM UTC
in that lightening moment I was stricken
with a memory – quickening, swiftly, and then
deliberately: a bamboo in waiting yet akimbo,
a sea unfazed yet stirring internally,
taking in the morning’s tremendous yawn
staring visibly, a thin line dividing soul and body,
ephemeral and perpetual, vivid recall
and faint oblivion;
was it the wind that she borrowed with her
presence or was it the breath that once stilled spring
like an invisible, yet felt river in my blood?
what impeccable maquillage was it that she donned,
dawn or twilight?
something the silence waits with its mount on the boughs,
the munificence of such plural modesty,
or everything the noise tell me which isn’t exactly
but still is, a memory.
Jan 18, 2016
Jan 18, 2016 at 8:25 AM UTC
it was raining that morning – so much the effloresce of colors
making their way back into the sky; there were the strangest forms of
clouds, their bodies assuming shapes and geometries, obscured angles
like that of two coiled lovers on a bed, whose bones ache the septuagenarian
but still at ease when it comes to building fire; no birds were out that day
and the busy binatog vendor blared into the streets like an unwanted nuisance,
it was already afternoon when you had your eyes wake up to mine,
your simian jaw curved to a hook of the C in crescendo, your voice the twilight
and the familiar passing of birds, the gush of blood inside of you;
there are such speeds that ultimate a crash, or a fragment – the semantics
of motion do not appeal to both of us, but we ceaselessly exist in those
moments when all of your movements summon, say, the sea, but that is a metaphor
used overtime, overwrought and taken out of its blue – say, your grandfather’s pendulum
watch impaled to the wall on a heady standstill, face to face with a linoleumed wall
that shouted its age – its superficial maquillage falling out of its slenderness
fashioned to secretive ****** something both you and I know, something that does not
come well with age, something that only some shadows choose to eschew in light.
in a faraway place, there might be parakeets but this time, underneath the cusped sky
and the parasol that was drenched by drizzle that we let dry by the doorstep,
there is something about the gnash of rusting metal-work that tells me time has its own
way of claiming things, renaming them, and bringing them back in awry stances nestled
in tight, wrestling nooks of space, dark and dust on ground – keeping us leaping in place,
swift with dreams of wings and aviaries, be it elocutionary with farce
or just keeping it real by the unreal of our imaginations – like birds swell in the sheen
of the sky’s flayed bone, sliding in and out of the fringes of the aureole until such gardens
are flustered with monochrome: this perfect dagguerotype of day.
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 8:13 PM UTC
Beautiful faces full of color
beneath lie haunting stories
images shunned by the world
carefully wrapped in maquillage.
They learnt the hard way,
The world cared not for their plight
So they mastered the art of concealing.
Pain wrapped in smiles.
Beautiful people full of fire
A passion that cannot be quenched
mountains became roads before them.
The foe crumbles in their wake.
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 1:48 PM UTC
Her maquillage so delightful
Her waves of thought insightful
Her bloomage eyes rightful
Her all to me, the serene hope.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
En tes yeux nage une factice opale,
Et le charbon t'allonge les sourcils,
Mais ton regard sans douceur n'est que pâle
Sous tes gros cils de sépia noircis.
Ah ! Pauvre femme, il règne un froid de pierre
Dans la langueur menteuse de ce fard ;
Quand tu mettrais l'azur sous ta paupière,
Tu ne pourrais embellir ton regard !
Oui, porte envie aux yeux vrais qui nous laissent,
En se voilant, captivés d'autant mieux ;
Ceux-là sont beaux, même quand ils se baissent :
C'est le regard qui fait le prix des yeux.
Qui sait pourtant s'il faut qu'on te dédaigne,
S'il n'est plus rien, dans ton âme, à cueillir ?
Pour la sauver il suffit qu'on la plaigne,
Un dernier lis y pourra tressaillir.
Est-il si vain, ce rêve de jeunesse
Dont nous rions et que nous fîmes tous :
Guérir une âme où la vertu renaisse !
Si généreux, étions-nous donc si fous ?
Qui sait pourtant si tout ton maquillage
N'endigue pas des pleurs accumulés,
Qui brusquement y feraient leur sillage,
Pareils aux pleurs des yeux immaculés ?
Car tous les pleurs, de pécheresse ou d'ange,
Dans tous les yeux sont d'eau vive et de sel ;
L'onde en est pure, et rien de ce mélange,
S'il vient du cœur, n'est indigne du ciel ;
Vois Madeleine : elle y trône ravie
Pour une larme où Dieu se put mirer :
S'il t'en reste une, une ancienne, à pleurer,
Tu peux laver ta paupière et ta vie.
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