"marring" poems
#*We're awakened to our insatiable longing for heaven
through both beauty and the painful marring of it.
For beauty hints to us of that for which we are truly made,
and its marring shouts that we are truly not meant to find it here.
We can be eternally grateful for beauty lost when we realize
that it's one of the great secret-tellers of the universe.
Still we fear it so and often fear even to hope for the beauty itself,
though they are a necessary cycle that fuels us on and drives us home.
We cannot deny or diminish our intense longing for beauty--
to see it and have it and be it, and we cannot pretend that its
dreadful loss does not press down upon us like a crushing weight.
We must let it crush us until our ache for heaven is excruciating.*#
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
I see your posts online,
you disgust me with your lies,
telling people their ugly,
you're filthy and vile,
you get your joy,
from the harm of others,
well I'm here to tell you,
it's not funny it's not cute,
Self-harm is a real problem,
Can't you see the pain you cause is wrong,
I should know how much it hurts,
because I was one of those people,
yes you hurt me,
the scars on my arm every one can see,
but the ones on my heart are the ones that bleed,
and yet the scars are nothing,
compared to my insecurities,
the self-harm,
is self-consuming,
it isn't funny,
it isn't cute,
you cause pain,
to pure beauty,
marring your skin,
with false shame,
because of filth,
that ruins dreams,
they aren't good enough,
to cause you pain,
but you let them in,
it's all the same,
I was one of you,
I have felt your pain,
I want to help you,
I want to say your name,
I know how it feels,
to want to die,
to stop breathing,
and begin to fly,
I've sat alone,
and started to cry,
the darkness consuming,
my very life,
but I fought,
and I made it back,
back to my life,
back on track,
and I realized,
That the ones who brought me down,
were the ones who should cry,
they have issues,
and they try,
to make themselves feel better,
with their malicious lies,
Self-harm isn't worth it,
don't cut and don't hurt,
and to the people who made me feel this way,
self-harm isn't funny,
I see right through your lies,
My insecurities are permanent,
but look into my eyes,
I'm a better person,
for the hardships you gave me,
because my friends need me,
and I need them,
I asked for help they saved me,
and now extend the favor,
if you need help,
just come to me,
I'm always here to help,
I know your pain,
And the one truth I know,
Is written in my mind,
Though you cause pain successfully,
self-harm isn't funny.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 11:59 AM UTC
from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose
his wings were blackened
by the fire's torch
the feathers bore the marks
of an inferno's scorch
forever he'd wear
the burn's scarring
as a reminder
of his marring
from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose
on spread wings
in the heavens
he again soars
ascending above
the flame's
raging roars
his being flying free
a mythical flight
rising to cast off
the searing's blight
from the pile of ashes
the figure arose
in a Phoenix
like pose
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 8:46 PM UTC
He was rain
The spray that came
On a scorching summer day.
He fell from his cloud
Without warning
Kissed the Flickering Flame into submission
All the while, saving a few sweet drops
Just for me.
He was the rain
That kissed the Flame and I.
He was rain
Leaving the Flame and I in wait
To see him on another day.
We danced for him
Inviting him to play
As we spun in each other's arms.
Finally, he joined us
The Flame and I jumped for joy
First side-by-side
Then miles apart.
He was the rain
That made the Flame blush
And set my selfish soul ablaze.
He was rain
Standing between the Flame and I
On any given day.
He soothed the new burns
Marring my skin
Though he always feared
He would put out the Flame.
He was the rain
That loved the Flame
While the both of them
Left me parched.
He was rain
A hurricane
Washing me away from the Flame.
The two of them laughed
Oblivious
And told me to swim
As I began to drown.
He was the rain
Who ran away with the Flame
Just when I thought
They could both be mine.
He was rain
And he slipped away
On a sunny winter's day.
The Flame left, too
Without a note
Left the heart within me
High, dry, and cold
Nothing there to set on fire
Or to give hope.
He was the rain
Who disappeared with the flame
Leaving me all alone.
Now, on this day
I float in a fog.
Floods on one side
On the other, burnt smaug.
I know who I am
And I'm here to stay.
I just wish that the Flame
Didn't take my rain boy away.
Still, he is the rain
Who is in love with the Flame
And I wonder
If he thinks about dry Earth like me
At all.
He is the rain
A fool for the Flame
Just like I was
All along.
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 4:30 PM UTC
Substantial quadrants of hate
Throughout these veins circulate
Spiraling in frenzied states
Adrift an ailing coma
Infinite corruption clawed my corneas
Birthing the erasure of euphoria
Imprinting trademarks of memoria
Leaving in wake vile aromas
All confidence dissolved to solvents
Due to definitive involvement
Susceptible to gaunt installments
Marring my skin with melanoma
Mother Earth serves as a mime
Humanity must be refined
© 2012 (All rights reserved)
Feb 4, 2012
Feb 4, 2012 at 1:23 AM UTC
what is we destroyed gender roles?
take the gender binary
and bend it till it brakes?
what if girls weren't confined to long hair
marring rich and being pretty?
what if boys weren't forced to strong
and to hide their feeling?
what if people wore the clothing they want
people stopped painting their child with pink and blue.
learned that the clothing is simple cloth to hide the body.
Jun 12, 2015
Jun 12, 2015 at 9:21 PM UTC
Across the span of fissures,
Marring a weather worn land,
Two, of The Elements toiled,
Splinters biting into their hands.
Air and Fire,
Barefoot and tired,
From opposite ends of the world,
Planks in hand, their journey transpired.
Towards the centre that was chaos,
That was disorder and fear,
Of what happened when the Elements met,
When they had come near.
Colossal the effect, Air fuelling Fire,
Fire enveloping Air,
The energy too intense,
Their bodies it sheared.
Thus, eternally wary, since
That time of Destruction,
They sought to overcome,
A life growing into dysfunction.
For a land remains empty,
Without fire to be the Dark's fall,
For Air in an empty land,
Gives life to none at all.
Thus they build,
each passing step,
A fence with sins inscribed,
To remember the sacrifice.
To understand what they were,
When coming close would not hurt,
When they could let live in peace,
Instead of driving the world into the dirt.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:03 AM UTC
(it's cliché to admonish clichés in their entirety)
I. (love)
We are meant to live the clichés;
we are meant to resuscitate the words,
and rehabilitate their wounds
into a fertile viewpoint
where we build respirators from clichés
to filter the virulent dust kicked up
by the marching pigs.
(re-invented clichés offer back breath
in an exchange of circular breathing)
The swine contort love
into armaments of antipathy;
they push buttons,
squeeze triggers,
pull pins,
and aim where it causes the most damage.
Even though we are natural born hypocrites,
we don't have to let that knowledge corner us
into using love as a weapon.
The pen is mightier than the sword,
and I wield both;
I sharpen the quill on the blade's edge.
If need be, use the pen for a counter-strike,
but only channel love in defence.
II. (poetry)
The pigs march to a beat
of nuclear blasts
that bring poetry's flag
nearer to half-mast.
Poetry should stand on its own merit,
instead of leaning on shanks that hide behind smiles
constructed with aspirations of popularity
that churn out lazy, aspartame-laced lines
devoid of accountability and integrity,
or lean upon smiles filled with slivers
from far too much fence-sitting,
too worried about the trending majority,
to see the complexity within simplicity
and clarity,
or
propped-up against degrees
while writing poems that are drier than the Sahara:
husks of lines tumbling across dunes,
only to be imploded
by atomic-pork mushroom clouds,
their fallout marring parchment
into a poisonous terrain.
.
III. (dreams)
(revive, twist, and switch the clichés )
We must not fear saying "never".
Surrender to love, but never surrender
to the jealous captains who attempt
to hook and net the defenders of Neverland.
With compasses of conscience
beating in hearts kept young,
navigate through the smoke and mirror-smog
emitted by the marching pigs.
(we must never give up on our dreams)
Dream about the courage needed
to love everyone and everything,
including our enemies
who conduct genocide
on the language of a purer intent.
Dream about word-seedlings
pushing through the arid rind
of dying poetry,
in hope for a more organic fruition
to grow in our hearts and minds,
so that poetry gains back its strength and vitality
to once again stand on its own merit.
+/-
Aug 1, 2013
Aug 1, 2013 at 6:38 PM UTC
At the stroke of midnight,
When sleep is at its height.
A ghoulish mist engulfs the town,
Bewitching even the Gothic Parish.
Marring its beauty with sinister a frown,
Ivied gates forbidding all that is nightmarish.
Its tall angels now grotesque gargoiles,
Tis when the witches own the sky.
Hidden by moonlight, for youth they toil,
Decades of immortality, watched with sharp an eye.
The towns square, a friendly place,
Now expressionless, a face.
Rings with its blurry past, haunting,
It's residents hiding, whence the hunting.
The witches doth confess,
The town's too quiet for us to obsess.
Begs the darkest one:
"Let us recess, to that dark cess,
Whence we came from.
Tis better to live a day hungry,
Than to be denied your place in history !!"
Jan 23, 2018
Jan 23, 2018 at 3:17 AM UTC
I’m meeting a friend tomorrow, one I haven’t seen in some years save for the incidental meeting a week ago that sparked this reunion
My thoughts, Reminiscent, tinged with melancholy for that time dotted with puffs of whip cream, sugar, sparkles, and joy spilling from the sky
We were mages one moment,
The elements at
Our beck and call
With a flick of our hands
Warrior cats the next
Loyally guarding
Bravely scarring
We lives in our world of monsters, and magic, and peach fuzz
None of the extra complications, the insecurities, the splotches marring our once vibrant and lovely canvas, turning it from a rainbow sparkle unicorn pony...to a mare
More time for text books
Less time for novels
More time for homework
Less time for TV
More time for crushes and heartbreak and insecurities and tears
Less time to run straight ahead without a care in the world
Reality, setting in like large boulders, so heavy and present, jutting into your life, impossible to unsee
But,
It’s not all planes crashing and burning, because now that she’s no longer made up into a sparkle pony, you can see the mare for the
beauty she is
Nov 20, 2018
Nov 20, 2018 at 11:36 PM UTC
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
the couches' cushions caving in.
The weight of passing hours
and minuettes alleviating thinking
in a miscellaneous metronome
ticking to bring time to a heaving chest.
Stay calm,
the pain of realignment will pass.
Burdensome they may be,
burgeoning wings will free you of...
Pressure collapsing this cage,
walls torn from studs,
leaving only this skeleton
surrounding us as we find delirium
the backbone of convulsing lungs watched,
earthquake mute laughter marring the faces
with jagged faults.
The cost of cracking,
we must accept the scarring permanent.
Breaks unplanned infirmities,
alone, our time line disrupted itself
and the heavens came,
tumbling down.
In silence,
we lay, arms barring
our escaping words.
Eyes overstep boundaries,
slipping through the gaps,
a second moment of
clarification fractures restraints
whilst beguiling brainstorms
sparked our interest.
Our tongues meet,
shyly.
rubies placed upon your breath
slipping against molded clay.
In sapphires
you and I hold nighttime
reflections of passion
contained in coal, waiting.
Ivory runs my length,
bending to ecstasy, breathing
shallow, asynchronous, failing
to find it's end in persistence.
In night
the danger dropped us, longing
that dusty light beaming down on
the show, Act 2 is
the comedy. Off.
Parallel parabola line diamond reflections,
allow for recall with brushed fingertips,
horse hair undertones realigning smiles,
abstract the paintings of today,
of yesterday, stealing away tomorrow
in a previous reiteration of our variant
indifference.
The wings of the demon opened
in symbolic solace, fell far
across this burning emotional
harbor, aflame
in angels' suicides.
We've fallen, taken knees to grace,
whispering eulogies the waves applaud.
Sands wash away to cupped stone
palms, caressing the troubled banks lost
in time. The blood washes away,
momentary marks, brown,
stained, it passes.
Demons foreshadow.
In their shade we are seen
falling into broken arms, sinew
stitched through hearts, still healing
strength gives way.
Our tongues meet
shyly,
this reunion a mistake,
now locked, staying stilled while
attempting apologetic phrasing.
We sit in silence,
backs crooked,
blank walls and barren recounts
crashing in.
Aug 19, 2012
Aug 19, 2012 at 2:32 AM UTC
I am not old, yet.
My skin is not powdery and white, see-through like a paper lantern.
But there is a part of me which
When I dare to reach for someone I love
Reaches with brittle ***** fingers, soft and cold and fluttering like white moths
That edge closer to a flame until they catch.
There is a part of me that feels old, and fragile.
And already even in the crest of my youth I’ve cursed this body
For its frailty, its needs.
It suffers and complains, always crying out for something,
Never sated, never still.
I’ve said it feels like living inside a porcelain doll
A look, and cracks can spider out along an arm,
A word and blood can bloom beneath the surface, seeping up into
Bruised pictures and symbols.
I must always be gentle,
I must always be
Watching.
Too passionate, and fissures form, marring the cheek, spreading like shadows thrown by a lace curtain.
I stare out, burning to touch everything,
And yet I pull back:
To dare is to risk, and I’ve seen
Both reward and loss.
I have seen a thousand shining colors spread across me like sunrise,
Warming my skin,
Calling to me like prayer until a bit of light escaped through the spaces between my atoms and reached another person’s palms,
But I have also seen the pale, flat shards of myself,
Sifted through white dust in dismay
For a salvageable portion.
Indeed, there are rooms in this world where sharp edges of me still linger
Waiting in obstructed corners and beneath heavy refrigerators
To gouge a foot or snag a hem,
Interred
In the dark and hollow places where they flew when I shattered and could not gather them all.
I have known
Intimately
My own fragility,
How maddeningly breakable I am
And how difficult to mend.
And there is a part of me now, always,
Which whispers to me when I would be bold,
“You are not old, yet.
But wouldn’t you just love
To live that long?”
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 10:36 PM UTC
Two men under a moonlit sky
Stacking stones
With heavy hearts and tired limbs
Stacking stones
Others slowly passing by, look and wonder why
They are
Stacking stones
The men know, though others question
That they have good reason
For their enduring habit of
Stacking stones
Their journey to here long has been
Trial marking and marring their way
Still they use the last bit of their strength
Stacking stones
The benefit they get
From their laborious task
Is worth the price
Of fortitude
That they pay
Stacking stones
The men finish
And turn
Finally going to their homes
To rest, if only for a time
From what seems like the ceaseless work of
Stacking stones
A small child
Young and innocent
Questions the men as they pass by
Returning home, no longer engaged in
Stacking stones
The men turn
And manage some few words
To the one questioning
Why they are
Stacking stones
For these stones they say remind them
Of how far they have come
For many many many years each pile represents
To them a reminder
Of a victory won
And so when all seems lost
They look upon the hill
Where their have toiled
And then they
Cannot help but remember
What they have accomplished
To drive them to go on
Stacking stones
So as long as they can lift
These rocks from the rushing river
They will carry on
Stacking stones.
(theinkthatspeaks.blogspot.com)
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 10:29 PM UTC
they say to love yourself
but sometimes
it's easier said than done
when all around you
there is an eddy of
slim thighs
flat bellies
long legs
and all you feel like
is an obstructive rock
marring the perfection
of the current.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 1:25 PM UTC
I see a world so hungry
Like god created the starving
And, not our greedy marring
One day this world will eat us
Innocent or guilty you must plead
This world is a monster you cannot feed
No words describing it are easy to read
In a world where only evil is feeding the ones in need
In a world that is taking everything you breed
We created a world we can never fit in
A place that gathers every single sin
The ones you commit and the ones you keep within
Some say you can keep everything away from this monster
Marry the devil commit to him and sing
Make him laugh a lifetime in a day
And, he'll give you the sacred ring
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 3:46 PM UTC
but a scar;
marring the freckled skin of my arms
&
the dips and valleys of my thighs.
an unhealed wound that
echos in the cavern
surrounding the pieces of my heart
that lay scattered along the shore
of my spirit.
each day glides across my skin
like a knife,
cutting deeper and deeper
into the depths of my body,
bringing nothing but sorrow, pain,
and the whispered words:
"be strong."
Jul 7, 2022
Jul 7, 2022 at 2:09 PM UTC
He left her blue roses
To commemorate his love
Left her notes,
Telling her to notice him
When she didn't
People had to die
People who looked like the victim
Who deserved to survive
But not everything is perfect
When predators lurk in the night
He stalked her until her wounds had healed
Those three little marks
That she left on his brow
Marring him, molding him
Into the scar of a person
This stalker really is
Apr 5, 2020
Apr 5, 2020 at 2:35 AM UTC
Virginia Nicholson
How To Build A House In N-Dimensions
1. Begin with lines, pencil to paper (if they could exist) drawing graphite arrangements, N-space reduced to one, a structure viewed in slices. Imagine the bathroom off the foyer, the den off the dining room, viewable only as inked lines, dit-dit-dah, a contractor’s Morse Code.
2. Progress to carpet squares, linoleum tiles, the coral paint pairs well with the eggshell trim. Dit-dah-dit becomes something useful to the non-contractor, “door” or “Master Bedroom” or “x hundred feet of pipe.” Envision the imagined patterns hidden in the bathroom floor, the kitchen hardwood.
3. Move to volumes, solids, conic sections, height. One story, two stories, a basement, an attic?, take advantage of the introduction of 3D. Upgrade the closet to walk-in, needs more carpet squares. A snapshot of a family barbeque, Charlie’s height 1D penciled in to the 3D door, marring 2D eggshell paint.
4. Adding time, the house is built, ages, gets sold to new families with little Charlies of their own, new markings on the cupboard door, 3-foot-2, 3-foot-5, 4-foot-9. Grass fades from Kelly to sand to Kelly, saturation a cosine function with respect to time. The Zoysia starts in one, breaking ground in two, growing in three, a well-manicured 4D experience.
5-11. Include the things invisible to us, objects on the order of 1 meter, orders of 10E-2 to 10E9 seconds. Five to eleven drip through leaky pipes, seep through porous flooring, get lost in iron-rich soil and oxygenated exhalations. Five to eleven stay hidden, wrapped up in Calabi-Yao manifolds smaller than graphite hills and valleys marking little Charlie’s height, stronger than the 2-by-4s and stone foundation keeping strong in 4D. Five to eleven circulate undetected, seven dimensions shrunk to sub-pinpoint size, keeping seven dimensions of unexplainables covered until their traces are seen in the blades of Zoysia.
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:20 PM UTC
Callous sentences saunter into the quaintest of landmarks
Capturing the cinematography that is the mockery of felicity
At times I ponder on whether its veins quake with fear
In lieu of the eyes marring her with bullet holes
Whilst humming commemorative memories
That now lie lifeless just as the wealth of their youth
Aug 24, 2012
Aug 24, 2012 at 4:54 PM UTC
Can’t you see your beauty?
That shines inside and out?
Why do you stay blind?
Why don’t you open your eyes?
Loved by everyone,
yet you cannot love yourself.
Why?
You're wonderful the way you are.
A masterpiece created with the finest paints.
Your skin is the perfect canvas.
Adorned with beauty,
yet you insist on marring it.
You paint it with pain and desperation,
angry slashes fill the canvas stained rain.
You say, “It’s been a bad year.”
your eyes on the floor.
Don’t be ashamed, you're not alone anymore.
I used to paint to, I've been there before.
I would paint onto my canvas
anger and despair
with a paint soaked brush—dripping red.
My heart begins to tear,
to think you’ve landed in the same darkness,
where the light is difficult to see.
Oblivious to those who love you—you are blind.
Unaware of those who say they love you—you are deaf.
Relinquish your brush,
and let yourself heal.
Open your eyes and see the light in front of you—extending its hand.
I will help you walk this road,
paving the way with dreams of brighter days.
Traveling to the land of hope and dreams,
the land of safety and acceptance,
the land where you can be free of your demons.
Everything will heal someday,
the marks you made will continue to fade
—until they are but silhouettes on a blank canvas.
Your heart will heal,
until the day you no longer paint with the colors of pain and sadness,
but with shades of hope and joy.
When you finally see that you are not alone.
When you hear the cries of those who wept for you.
When you feel the sorrow of those who prayed for you.
When know the truth of those who said they loved you.
I walked by your side,
guided you when you could no longer see,
and listened to you when you screamed and cried as you fought your inner demons.
But now you must listen to me, my friend.
There will be better days,
hold your head up high and smile.
The best has yet to come.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 9:33 PM UTC
My words spill out like mice
hiding in the cupboards and in the bread
Each ******* is crumbled
and humbled by gnawing
The tables are dusted with
delicate clawing
The marring is whispered
in squeaking silent sound
Impossible to see but
they are rife across the ground
In bed they find the warmth
in the goose down and the cotton
now sullied small diseases
will soon go washed forgotten
Trapping tactics once tried and true
seems wasted on these careful few
Snapping empty in the dark
no silent stealing will squeeze them stark
Each dream they waltz across the screen
like small and spying rolicking ribbons
Through the snowy evergreens and wanton queens
yet waking finds that they aren't fiction
To tame them in time
is what must be
So no more is cradled
by their incredulous creed
Now that they have all run of the house
From the floorboards to the flue
My fighting is futile against this furred Faust
For in my great battles, my life they've consumed
My motions through doors
now move with great heed
over my rasped wooden floors
of naked tails and featherweight feet
Each morning they find
themselves feeling bold
and swim like sirens
through my cereal bowl
At noon when I read
they shred and they gnaw
so I can no longer see
one word without a paw
In my evening bath
they sport small diving bells
As I dry myself off
from my towel I shake twelve
They admire in the mirror
and prance piano pirouettes
they've failed to adhere
to give respect to any threat
One day a magic made it though
to the edges of my mind
to cut short this ever frothing flow
and put my tongue in a bind
Then slowly, slowly, one by one
they folded flew and fell
I'd hardly hope this trial was done
but it all continued well
One night when they were scarce and few
only the faintest furred remained
I wonderfully slept sound and anew
Haunted dreams I no longer detained
The lonely left began to nestle in
an exodus through the sheets and bed
each whisker scraped soft on skin
and climbed back inside my head
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 11:32 PM UTC
.
So many ****** birds,
Grey, brown and black,
Suited as they sully in sun,
In feather and windy-speak
And dream, drifting to profit
Points, marring the globe,
They have so many ways
Of singing on their swings
Behind bars, murky birdies,
Gawking in the crowded fields,
Fielding, flighty questions without
Answer, winging all souls to oblivion,
Who fly, flustering, dusting with song
Twisting the air into pure falsehoods,
Curious, grounded pets for kingdoms,
For masters, fly-hoping in their cages.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 4:27 PM UTC
As long as it doesn't affect me;
as long as it's not immediately relevant
and something I have to immediately worry about;
as long as it doesn't **** up
my credit score
or my
shiny
new
house
then,
**** it.
And
**** you,
for bringing it to my attention.
how dare you.
this was promised to me,
it's predestined,
my two-story, three bedroom, two bath; the foreign workmanship and american artifice; the creamy halo of vinyl in the sun; the wrath of windexed windows and their hard missiles of bright, reflected sunlight; the soft lips of my children; my wife's pillowy, warm stomach and scratchy ***** our retriever that eats his own **** picking apart tiny specks of feces from the sun-pricked tips of our rug of fescue; these are the works of God, this is the land of God. You are marring this flat earth
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:21 PM UTC
i have seen scarred wrists and burns and bruises marring the bodies of beautiful girls, countable ribs and thigh gaps and jutting hip bones.
boys destroying themselves in puffs of smoke and empty pill bottles, dry coughs coming from ruined lungs.
but nothing triggers me like you do.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 9:49 PM UTC