"oiling" poems
I wanted to write a poem about the joys simple things. But I’ve lost the meaning of them since I’ve been away it seems. For many years I’ve served duty tours, it’s just the life that I have lived. So I write poems of war and of warriors and death; sometimes it’s all I have left to give.
I picked my brain for images of candlelight picnics on sandy beaches, but I opened the basket looking for ammo to load in my weapon breaches. Oiling my guns may not be romantic, or when I lace my boots up tight, but you can bet your **** it comes in handy when you’re caught in a fire fight.
I tried concentrating as hard as I could, trying to envision more peaceful things. Instead I was reminded of Black Hawks with M240-Bravos in weapon slings. It seems I can’t be normal or think like a normal human being, I’ve been battle hardened inside my soul and this is part of what it brings.
PTSD is what they call it, they say I need some aid, but it just feels like second nature, pulling the pins and throwing grenades. I’ll go home one day and I’ll look the same because my wife can’t see my scars, I’ve hid them all inside myself and that’s what makes this hard.
They tell me I’ve been lucky, I didn’t get a single injury. But the damage was done inside of me and that’s what they don’t see. So I’ll go home a “lucky one” and act like I am fine, and live my days pretending, while keeping this war trapped in my mind.
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 6:07 AM UTC
.*well **** me, after writing such a revealing piece, i really need a double whiskey gob-smack... i need a drink... i really need to have drink... but it's honesty, i'm not ashamed of it... people have a harder time owning up to gay bar pop songs in their closet, like a Belinda Carlisle song... ooh... personally? i've never come across anything more **** than a pregnant woman ************ or, to mind the pursuit of the Wendol idol? exhibitionism to boot; a striptease? pare by comparison... you can't exactly possess the carnality of a woman, and the concept of the mind's eye... with a fetus, to boot.*
in terms of jerking off...
**** me,
i moved away from
fine art nudes...
found an alternative
outlet....
https://tinyurl.com/ybhzl3x5
i.e.?
the exhibitionism
of
pregnant women...
it's like peering into
a wormhole,
of sorts...
who the hell needs
****** glory-holes,
******** crap?
pull me to sight
a pregnant woman
encouraging exhibitionism
and i'll be there,
within second,
with a tissue...
**** it...
she can do it, and doesn't shy
away from?
**** is
so lost...
been catching up on
the whole American Pie franchise...
m.i.w.i.l.f.
mom in waiting i'd
love to ****
who said that jerking off leads
men to ******* ***
****** *****
who said we would turn the
******** avenue?
oops? for not being
adventurous enough?
adventurous consisting
of watching
a pregnant woman
exhibition herself,
oiling herself,
jerking off...
what... if i were married...
could probably
become the mouth and tongue
of God in terms of oral ***
******* losers...
having the negligence
stipend in allowing a wife,
as pregnant as she is...
to exhibition herself like that...
for me to pick up
the crumbs from the table...
******* losers...
i'll admit it...
jerking off to a pregnant
woman exhibit herself
beats jerking off to fine art
nudes.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 9:46 PM UTC
City rush me
Pretty push
Did he see?
The wish on
Hard on_____
Sunday I thought
A rush of pluses +++
He won
Be on time if not - - -
Monday be
good to me
Rumors
Fantasy thoughts
I am
What I am
Not Popeye
Going day back
I need a third eye
I am
All free
Robin
Bird
From
everyone
Wait!!
Don't rush me
I love everyone______*
Newspaper's
Sunday
Daily
News
Poem
touchdown
My poem stood
With the others
I bowed ((Gladly))______
Waking up
To a Racers- mouth
Ray____ speed lover
No homework
All game
Sunday____
Candles burned
The House flamed
"Procrastinator"
I'll be back
"Destroyer-Terminator"
Coffee drug me percolator
He April fools her
Shopping Sunday
right up magnifying
dress
He is back
Not the future
Smart *** tricks
On the Escalator
He Jeremy irons out
her clothes
That's it!!!
Never rushed
on Sunday
To make
a mob hit
The call girls
Busy- tight pants
So Panicked Monday's
religiously
Hooked in
Scientology
So ****** in
Not to ever kiss
her on a
Sunday
He bunked into ((God))
Poem ritual bunk bed
Well NYC
Cabbie, he
will
never
take it
on Sunday
The big game
crazies
The flower
shops
of horror
Emptied
out with
Moms
Tiger
Lillies
Smelling
Mad Men hungover
Rush hour
Tv movie
Hangover
Jet game
Sprinkler
shower
Opening up
The door to his
apartment
Big Girly
hoarder mess
After a
long talk
night
Saturday Night
Brooklyn
The Disco Queen
bridge-sight
His Mom
is still oiling
His BMW Racecar
with
Hot fire Crisco
he
will never
be
rushed
out the door
His car
never
starts
Sunday
or a
Monday
Teased on
Tuesday
Wednesday
shes wild
Thursday
Ladies
drink
for free____
She got
her husband
to buy
her cushion
cut square
On Sunday
Do it or dare
She's
hanging
low
Times Square
Girly rough
Brooklyn
tough
Channel
blush
On Sunday
he is so
wired bushed
May 8, 2018
May 8, 2018 at 1:01 PM UTC
No, no, I haven’t been doing this myself,
but I live in Cambodia,
and 2 guys and a girl were deported recently
for riding around on a motorbike in the ****
in broad daylight. Actually, you see,
naively or deliberately,
they rode right past a police station.
Now that must have been a sight for sore eyes.
So the police set out in hot pursuit,
rubbing their sore eyes, or whatever they rub,
maybe their truncheons, eh?
And when the perps were pulled over,
the cops didn’t fall about with hilarity
when these riders said quite calmly
that they were going to pick up their laundry.
Truly! They were backpackers! As if that explained it.
But publicly, the cops said nope,
these perps are obscene to be seen like this
and they violate Khmer customs and culture.
The cops even took pictures of this outrageous obscenity.
Indeed. The riders' rapture of being bare assed
and naked and **** free is not for Cambodia.
Certainly not at this juncture.
So their capture resulted in them being deported,
never to show hide nor hair in the country again.
Just goes to show...
But you can get away with ****** here,
particularly shooting union leaders or critics or protestors,
or you can throw a grenade into the opposition,
and **** a few right there. Those killers go free.
It's probably dangerous to speak openly,
but I don't think these guys read poetry.
They're probably busy oiling their artillery,
and even rocket launchers, as the PM
threatened to use against the opposition recently.
Seriously.
They're on the lookout for dissenters here.
Oh yes. And bare ***** Obviously.
So watch you **** in Cambodia,
especially if it's bare on a bike.
And ssshhh! Watch out for your mouth.
You need to cover your mouth up properly, too.
Mike T Minehan
Jan 20, 2015
Jan 20, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC
"I Am Machine"
Mechanically moving
Breathing
In and out motions
Separated by nothing
"I Never Sleep, I Keep My Eyes Wide Open"
Constantly in a day dream
Numb to all that surrounds me
Watching and waiting
But never doing
"I Am Machine"
I am nothing
But the parts that make me whole
Praying to find Oz
No heart, no courage, no soul
"A Part Of Me Wishes I Could Just Feel Something"
What is love?
What is hate?
I have no beginning
No ending, no fate...
"I Am Machine"
Mechanically going through the motions
Never feeling
Jealousy rages through me
For humans with their pain and suffering
"I Never Sleep Until I Fix What's Broken"
Tightening the bolts of my soul
Oiling the gears of my heart
Trying to find a way to feel whole
Praying I finish before I fall apart
***"I AM MACHINE
A PART OF ME WISHES I COULD JUST FEEL SOMETHING"***
Dec 25, 2014
Dec 25, 2014 at 6:32 PM UTC
please don't ask
why my words
are so intent on
chaining your heart
to the nightmares I've
stuffed my pillows
full of
with promises rusting
into blackened iron
links and truths that
would shine better as
lies
I never meant
to cage you
in my dreams -
it's just that my
eyelids solder shut
and I cannot pry my silver
eyelashes apart without
cracking at the faultlines
I forget to mention
whenever I wake up
alone
it's just that my
soul needs more
than a little oiling
more than a little
you
to breathe away this
metal corroding its way into my
tear ducts, dripping rust
down my cheeks,
choking on 'blood oxide'
and mechanical residue
buried underneath my
fingernails
it's just that every
******* 'i love you'
is yet another link
around my finger,
wrenching the life out
of me,
blue shadows engraved
on my skin never shine
like silver in the sun
but if this is the
only clanging chain
of heartbeats echoing
in metal boxes
from me to
you;
what can I do?
it's just that there
was a lock somewhere
along this mess of coils
and chinks and mistakes
but oh god,
when did the rust
between you and I
melt into three thousand
miles of mercury trickling thermometer
poison into everything
we say?
I've lost my keys;
they had sunk first and
I will sink last
it's just that
the clinking thump thump of your heartbeat
is my lullaby;
it's just that
knowing you breathe warmth is enough
to cool the burning silver in my lungs;
it's just that
close to you is the closest I will ever
feel to 'alive'
it's just that
if I can't keep you -
nobody can
Dec 2, 2014
Dec 2, 2014 at 4:56 AM UTC
it’s like my body is a roller coaster
there
for anyones pleasure
what goes up
must come down
so enter me without any thought
until the ride is over and you can walk
away
power and strength all in your possession
and i am left with
nothing
because who wants to thank me
for the acceleration
the quickening of breath
the energy
the never ending rush of excitement
who wants to spend a few extra minutes on this roller coaster
smiling
with thankful eyes
maybe returning the favor?
oiling my gears and making me
sigh with pleasure
rather than
squeaking with pain?
but that is to much to ask
once you’ve reached the end,
and what was once up is now down,
and your heart is slowing its pace
you can go find another ride
another roller coaster
that will take you for a few spins
for a few minutes of satisfaction
until it is over and you’re tired
and i’m tired
but who cares
because the next ride starts now
and what goes up
must come down
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 8:48 PM UTC
Be my muse,
I'll translate you into binary
and back again.
Lying on the ground,
blue carpet between your ears,
synthesized sounds convey through spaghetti,
hearing aides grow old with us.
Child sized vowels fall off their bicycles,
from between your lips.
Keep me busy; when I'm comfortable, I get lazy.
Your shirts are overlaid grids,
the holes, coordinates.
17.43
Always a poet, only occasionally writing,
I hedge my bets and roll die
with insults open to interpretation.
I don't like your words,
I don't need your hyena smiles
I don't want your degrading remarks.
But I know your skeleton,
your tendons, cartilage and marrow filler.
I understand how you move,
the coconut oiling your joints.
Be a textbook reference,
help me cut apart the paperchain people I’ve made,
I want to portray them realistically.
Shade their features with scrawled adjectives,
resolving to care about typography.
White school glue takes too long to dry
to have hopes of staving off entropy.
Scribble highways into dusty prairies,
be the cartographer that misplaces my world.
May 16, 2013
May 16, 2013 at 12:52 PM UTC
Your life is threadbare
and it's cosy
Uncomfortable
but safe
Poor
yet secure
It's not killing you
but then neither are you living.
The head is above water,
Struggling against the tide.
Grinding along on a hamster wheel
that badly needs oiling
I mean
You now earn less than you did at your first job.
It was **** all then
and that was 5 years ago.
The years have not been kind. The hairline has crept upward
Roughly in line with inflation.
A job's a job's a job's a job's a job.
There's a damp roof over your head.
Are you ready to trade all this in for a taste of adventure?
A main course of personal growth
washed down with a side order of
Drudgery
loneliness
and Japanese Encephalitis.
Will they find you out?
Will you be pulled into an office
while a polite local
explains how her English is better than yours?
That could all happen, says the head
but the frightened, quivering heart longs to change.
To jump into the fire and emerge reborn
strong, dynamic, brave. All the things you aren't now.
Just don't hope for too much.
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 6:28 AM UTC
i'll let you on a little secret... spaniards are gigolos to the slavs... cheap-shit, chinese rolex beauties, which is why the english are prone to vacate there: oiling up to get a quicker suntan than an essex lass turning orange-brown in the space of a weekend's session at a u.v. parlour.
westerners define western slav as cleaner material,
if not simply the plumbers and electricians,
got a blocked toilet? get a pole
to unblock it. but you see... the thing is...
the slavs see the spaniards as
euro-trash... cheap-shit-cancerous-suntan...
spaniards are cheap **** to the slavs...
western european nations (excluding
the germans) invokes a sense of self-worth
that, like a tapeworm feeds of the slavs migrating
without colonising... when the western
powers migrated and colonised,
never really preparing themselves for jihadis,
st. john the decapitating tyrant spoke to st. george's
dragon with a cockney accent:
oi bruv bruv up up mate! score us an eight's worth
of 20 quid!
so while the high tier of europe speaking deutsche anglican
rather than deutsche swiss keep time and
penny flip: carnal heterosexual or just plain ****
the slavs mock the same tier with a choice
of holiday resorts exploited... next to the fake suntan...
because spaniards are like albanians for the slavs...
oiled up cheap-shit material for even cheaper literature
of the handsome, blue eyed, dark haired (well oiled)
stranger... selling pomegranates... that a fair maiden
might succumb to... selling her virginity the fiftieth time.
Feb 9, 2016
Feb 9, 2016 at 12:25 PM UTC
O Palestine
My Palestine,
Open your eyes
You need to reply all
in the language of bullets
In a voice full of hatred
I saw Israeli bombardment overnight.
Burning human civilization all around
The curse of our souls is upon
those who are engrossed
in destruction.
Those who take away our abode.
O Holy Mosque Al-Aqsa,
You are the essence of our existence
I swear by my Lord that
I will never allow this
holy place of yours to be defiled.
Where is my brother
Arab non-Arab
Qatar
Kuwait
and the King of Saudi Arabia
Who are holding the flag of Islam?
Who are contained an ancient heritage.
O brother
Are you engaged in oiling their palms ?
Now we want unity.
And there is no alternative to unity.
I hate all airstrikes
Bullets are falling from unseen dark
O Palestine
My Palestine,
When will you sleep unduly?
We are waiting for the good day.
May 16, 2021
May 16, 2021 at 3:32 AM UTC
*yeah, let's compose the alphabet in music for each letter we try to sound like a wine bottle cork unplugged from vintage; it won't work, i known, but it might get a few skidding on gizmo go go, trying to democratise iran: try turning iran sunni first, you, you defrosted snowman worth a carrot and two chalk coal ******** writing: hardboiled into sight of believable. oh here comes a white man talking privy aloud with the rapper loosing breath, but keeping it up and replacing the pelvic hinges with easy, drool, rhymes; a kind of rubric tablature of scores for rodeo with alternative sounds to: moo, ow, ah, broomstick shoo, take the cow for a milking home from the dead bull dazzled into genesis on t.v.; or that other literati spectator sport of not reading but talking oneself into academic bibliography for an intro.*
the great thing about being an alcoholic...
you never quiet know
when you're drunk or hungover;
but it makes up for great twilight sunsets
pooh lonely; ah ooh smooch -
kisses a honey stick stuck to ****
in a hollywood crescendo of
paparazzi and applause;
and anorexia; and dyslexic oiling for a facelift:
that's called smiling i have you know -
enter michael jackson - hippie hip he;
if i die aged thirty, i'll be happy to have
been frisky twenty-nine into a thong.
*or, alt., tell ****** about the swimming pool and the tadpole kenyans sprinting into impregnated landownerships of priests: sounds like this: pst - herr führer - die schwimmin poolst erst niener jessy ovens geeignet. no one said that african buttocks couldn't bayou the ships ashore, but they did; what?! i'm not the 12" dangle! you keep up racism, i'll keep up mozart's austria; alt. please see how censoring adjectives in relation to objects gives you a false moral subjectivity that's only a matter of pleasantries.*
Sep 15, 2015
Sep 15, 2015 at 11:04 PM UTC
Thee Woman
There is always a woman every man will ever come into contact with that no women after or before will ever come to level with. This woman could be an assortment of types. But in this case.. in 'my' case... this woman was 'Thee Woman'. She stood tall, strong, elegant, classified, grounded, intelligent, beautiful beyond comprehension. She stared with such force. Eyes piercing directly into my soul.. But she did not mean to frighten me.. but instead show me a certain kindness I had long forgotten. She fully understood her own passion and chaos. When she was weak she would not show it. When she felt Joy she would remind he who poured that joyfulness over her. She was exotic in her passion. The *** was not something of this world. It was like 2 universes entering a black hole, into oblivion.... She would moan and roar and scream and cry and she would rock the stars in the long, dark, frightful night.. The sheets of our bed would soak, the windows in our room would fog, Our bodies doused in exotic bliss and ****** *** We were drunk off one another... We held on tight to one another and made utter love.. Her juices oiling over my as if to loosen up my rusted body parts, to make me move again and have life... a new start. She was god like but demanded no worship. She is humble, she is creative. She is pure... Earnest. When she loves she gives it her all. She is so many things... so many good things... Completely and undoubtedly, the woman of my dreams.. in reality.
Jun 8, 2016
Jun 8, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
It is all about the thing that is the last whisper you hear before you sleep.
It is all about the lingering feeling of a soft kiss on your lips before you snuggle the night away in his arm.
It is all about the random tide that hits you making you realise how much you're loved,
Like a silent sky people forget about sometimes but is always there when you look up.
It is all about the numbing chilly breeze on a wintery midnight, that makes you feel so much,
The roads and surroundings covered in orangish pink hues, slowly humming to themselves, luring you in a trance.
It is all about the soft wintery moon smiling down at you,
Or the science exams that bring out your artistic streaks
It is about those moment of tranquillity where every piece falls into the places they belong.
It is all about the stains you get after laying in the grass early morning
Each dew drop looks like a twinkling sun of their own.
It is about getting to taste heaven in your favorite flavor,
And enjoy the sun kiss your skin.
It is all about nani maa oiling your hair and your mother's eyes twinkling, while she says you're such a spoiled kid.
It is about the hope that someone else will get the door.
It is all about fluffy socks, sweater with hand drawn patterns
It is all about flushed cheeks, freezing hands in your friend's pocket
Like the snow flakes that fall,
Unique in their own way,
Every season with itself brings
Its own flavor and shades,
And though summer is well known for lighting a wildfire in everyone's heart,
And adrenaline rush of first love,
Winter stands elegantly, and let things run into a deeper course.
Dec 5, 2016
Dec 5, 2016 at 2:36 AM UTC
He is the puppet master, that has
strung his strings through my
wooden hands, played fate in
my hollow days.
I am the puppet dancing to
every rhythm of it's somber tune,
playing psychic to his every wish.
I am the warrior, crying surrender
to me in my strongest days,
denying defeat after it's already
happened.
I am the warrior, oiling his guns
after using them on I-playing
slave in a world of freedom.
He is the ice burg that sank my
ship, when I almost reached
shore, teasing the land.
He is the mountain that blocks
my view of joy, blinding my
eye to know this.
Now I am the guilt in his
heart, playing nightmares in
his mind.
SDPope
Jan 24, 2010
Jan 24, 2010 at 6:28 AM UTC
black coffee walks alone
closed eyes, avoiding signs
holding love in back pockets
cracking open pens, drink ink
blink: sunlight! it's blinding,
and alright, but I much perfer
darkness.
so many calls that make me
feel small. I don't know what to say,
so I hang up, and hang myself in the
backyard to dry, afraid you might catch
my scent, and run away.
you taste like
flowers, feel the way my lungs do when
it's hard to breathe, feel the way my ears
do when I struggle to hear the mumbled
mess of what you wouldn't dare say straight
forward.
I saw you coming, felt you coming,
lost you, lost myself, removed the sheets,
found someone else. To remove myself,
you hoped, I hope it helped.
bagged in plastic
styrafoam cups, luke warm, but you're warmer.
a charmer, heart farmer.
Welcome home, please
make sure if you leave, it's somewhere better.
Dec 14, 2011
Dec 14, 2011 at 3:55 PM UTC
Santa's got up from his bed and
he's oiling the wheels on his sled,
There's no longer a freeze so
he doesn't use skis,
yes,
Santa's got up from his bed.
Oct 26, 2014
Oct 26, 2014 at 10:03 AM UTC
We are all broken toys
Living in a twisted plastic world
Looking for love
With a toy less broken
Or broken in a different way.
Looking at frayed strings
And faded fabric
And hoping to make something new
And wearing down with overuse
And abuse.
And oiling joints
That creak from age.
Toys to be played with
But handle with care
Not plastic
But porcelain
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
tossing
restless
the in-between space
of darkness before sleep
cogs turning
in the engine of mind
need oiling
no shops open
dawn
light through the window
illuminating corners
where no one can hide
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 7:50 PM UTC
When I've aged
With passion spent,
I'll save my breath,
There's less to vent,
Save my energy,
Say, Yes.
When the kettle isn't boiling,
Or the hinges need an oiling;
There's no alarm to turn me on,
I sleep soundly through the dawn,
That's when I
Say, Yes.
I've read love rhymes,
Lived a few,
Now culled my books
And love letters,
Sacrificed like a goat
That's tethered,
Parsed my heart
To flames and feathers,
Still,
I say, Yes.
I say it to whatever's offered,
Break the lids off creaky coffers,
Scatter rainy days with blue.
Ah. Getting older's what we do.
And through it all,
Say, Yes.
Jun 10, 2015
Jun 10, 2015 at 8:39 AM UTC
Thinking about that guy
How he got all rusted up
How he longed to have a heart
How he got stuck in mid-motion.
I long to write again
But like the tin man
My heart (for writing) seems lacking
Haven't I said it all?
I mean it gets old
It's no longer refreshing
Writing is a gift that seems to have peaked
Something that once flowed very well
I'm frozen up
I need some oiling
To get the process churning
Frustrating, when I want to move
But I feel stuck
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 10:22 AM UTC
...and now I am tired,unwired and unstrung and what had begun when the sun hit the streets has now ended,I defended my right to work into the night,I was wrong,the night was so long and my life,once light,now weighs me down.
I am drowning in the aspirations of what were once my own creations,treading on once upon a times and struggling hard to work these rhymes into some sort of verse.
Someone nurse me back to youth,
in truth I think that's all I need,to wait beside the fountain and feed upon the spring.
Someone bring me yesterday where I can lay my head and say,I'll do it differently and in the time it takes to cook a goose all hell's let loose as time bends back its hands and the clock stands still,then in reverse,which in itself is one more verse that rhymes,time's marching on and yet we all know that the time to talk has gone and words mean nothing if not spoken,something tells me that time is broken, and by the spring I stand behind I watch the universe unwind.
This is one more notch upon the post or at least the most that I could hope for as I open up and close the door,
sleep will come.
if not now then later so I'll wait a while,lights down low,don't want the night to know,
I'm here.
Dec 13, 2013
Dec 13, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
Baby, as ancient as you are
your naivety worries me,
or is it my own? Thinking I
could ever have you again.
Oh but how I wish, pray, on knees
again to set eyes upon glory
of man named Antonio Guadi,
his Sagrada De Familia.
Is he finished with you yet?
Will he ever be? Would I want it so?
Artisans carving sanctity to sky,
what have you chisseled in my absense? Is God's work ever done?
Do, continue on forever, give me
chance to return.
Ah to bask on shore of San Sebastian,
with pollished rellics of former
architecture found in his beaten grains.
I long to melt there once more, in awe of
noon on Mediterranian Sea. My eyes
taking witness to painted Catalonian
women, ******* with holy devotion
dipping faithful fingers into your
waters, and signing the cross before
dipping into blueness. Good Catholic
girls they are. And handsome Gods about,
oiling each other and bearing wittness
as well. The ice cream boy, is he
grown now? Does he walk by open
mouthed still, where we left such
imprint in the sand for all to see?
When? If, I arrive again, will we walk
Las Ramblas, stare at human
statues, dance with gypsies, drink
Absinthe and be taken by spell of
Green Fairy? Will we then not care
that pretty pick-pockets rob us
blind? Oh, for the hallucinatory
love of it all! Hold me in your fortress
walls forever, should I ever, return.
My Barcelona Baby, take me back.
PJ Poesy
p.s. I never left you.
Mar 17, 2016
Mar 17, 2016 at 12:10 PM UTC
For bright prosperous future,
They say oiling is required.
They inform buttering is must;
If in job promotion is desired.
Butter increases cholesterol.
It is not at all good for health.
I say no to such promotions.
Poverty better than such wealth.
I cannot **** my conscience;
To make tomorrow brighter.
For oiling I've a jar of kerosene;
And I always carry a lighter.
Nov 3, 2014
Nov 3, 2014 at 12:09 AM UTC
I remember when i was a little girl,
I was as brave as a lion,
And i knew i was perfect,
I didn't fear oiling my hair and wearing two ponytails,
Because i knew i looked pretty,
I had clear skin,
Slim belly, warm eyes,
Chubby cheeks, soft voice,
Pink lips!
And i knew my brown hair was amazing,
When i was a little girl,
I could do what i wanted,
I didn't really care what people thought,
I did know i could be smiling
and melt people's hearts by just speaking a word,
Also i knew my heart was as pure as gold,
and mind as creative as Lord's creations.
Then i was a good girl,
And i only wept when i saw others sad,
But when i grew up,
I started being reckless,
Hating myself,
My skin had acne and my hair fell,
Yes i was sick mentally and physically,
No more my words melted hearts,
Instead they irritated people,
My smile now was no more real,
Instead it hid my fears, hatred, sadness,
But still my heart was pure,
Not as much as earlier, but pure!,
And mind still creative though a little dull,
But creative,
And yes i do weep when i see others sad,
But just silently,
Of course i over think and mess up things,
But maybe things were meant to be this way,
And my heart to drown within my soul,
And losing my self confidence,
But never losing hope!
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 2:03 AM UTC