"pigmented" poems
*He’s no musician.
He doesn't make melodies through violin and guitar strings.
Yet he composed, haunting ballads in dramatic tempos,
Rhyming every lyric,
Harmonizing, making it dance in a musical euphony.
He’s no seamster.
Yet he cuts and he traces,
plain words and printed phrases;
Then he sews and he weaves it skilfully,
into a lovely concrete poetry.
He’s no painter.
He just has a palette of pigmented letters,
splashing colorful lines on his blank canvass.
A blast of contained evocative memories,
Streaking and shading mixtures of kaleidoscopic imagery.
He’s no storyteller.
Yet from him, I heard the most romantic tales-
One, of the moon and its lover sea.
Reciprocating shy glances, whispering I love you’s,
while kissing behind the sprawling mountains.
Though the dawn will come, they do not fear.
For after the majestic tribal sun leaves his stage,
There’ll the lovers be once again reunited.
He's no poet.
Yet he writes--
stanzas and verses.
And oh! it revives,
every strand of emotion,
every sense of intuition,
Inside me.
A lyrical perception,
Sheer perfection,
Arousing perpetual reactions,
From me.*
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:47 AM UTC
I despise social media.
It's ugly, to state the obvious
Our lives are posted, retweeted, altered, reblogged, perfected, and photoshopped to exactly how we want to be perceived
We have the freedom to be exactly what they want us to be.
It starts with a few edits doesn't it,
pigmented our skin to seem smooth and sun kissed,
that would seem most acceptable right?
Maybe an extra like for the skinnier waist.
More reassurance for brighter colors.
Some more filters will hid the emptiness you feel with your friends
Another like
Flashier clothing, phones, shoes, cars, other simple words our eyes have latched on to
Another like
We urge ourselves to portray the life of leisure and effortless beauty, happiness, success,
Another like
But what are we enjoying?
Another like
Views of our changing world through a 3 by 8 view.
Another like
Events pass by swipe
Another like
and swipe
Another like
And when we managed to unlock ourselves from this grasp
We always come back
Like flies to light, more like scratches to a scab
Festering we find ourselves getting ****** back in
To an imaginary world, that if destroyed, would have no physical effects on their fictional beings
For without this world, maybe eyes will open
We will step past the boundaries,
and start to love our beings
unfiltered
Aug 10, 2018
Aug 10, 2018 at 4:40 PM UTC
The mirrior is my adversary.
My eyes variance, what others don't see.
To the word I'm adequate, crowning , spotless, and skilled
Every morning I wake up, get ready and cover my lips in red majestic mac
Red lipstick seems to illuminate confidence in the eyes of many,
but to me it is merely a pigmented shield of secrets.
Humorous isn't it?
Every unmarred life, seeks to relive its pigments
Fears, self-doubt, imperfection.
Mirror, mirror, mirror on the wall..
Who's the thinnest of them all...
The sound of battle rumbles
Conscious at wrists ends
Bawling in me
Fat,
Fat,
Fat,
Yours tricks are foul, you tauntful mind
Vision is blurred from reality,
Oh mind how you love to frolic
Your sheer joys leave me unpieced,
The snickering of my mirror,
Damages my frame.
Sorrowing fades my red lipstick
Pigments revealed,
Vulnerable,
Unworthy,
Marred to the bone
Quickly I learned that the mind is the enemy, filled with con
Staring in my mirror and all I see is fat.
Red lipstick always seems to fade by the end of the night.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 10:16 PM UTC
It's funny
How a simple black line,
A pigmented powder,
And a plastic line glued to my eyelid
Can make me feel pretty
Makes me feel presentable
It makes me feel like I'm worth something
But even so-
It's false.
Synthetic.
It's all a lie.
Oh how I wish I could stop lying.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 6:10 PM UTC
I feel ugly.
Like,
the dark spots on a full moon.
The burning skin under the crisp sun.
The harsh stain of vibrant colours on a canvas.
The violent shade of the monsoon cloud.
The rustic smell of an old key.
The sad wrinkles on a tree trunk.
The tired stretch marks on a shabby body.
Or,
the birth of a life.
I feel less. I feel pigmented.
I feel lost. I feel strange.
This is my beauty to taste.
To embrace.
Jun 27, 2018
Jun 27, 2018 at 8:00 AM UTC
Her long fingers grasped
the midnight blue pigmented stick of oil,
pulling it across the sand coloured card
as if nothing else existed.
The way she focused on the piece of art
she was creating-a piece of art
much like herself,
was exhilarating.
On the card was variations of
shapes, colours and shades-
much like herself.
She wore a prominent frown when she drew,
shaking her head and muttering things to herself when she went outside the lines,
making her hair fall into the middle of her shoulder blades.
Just like her masterpiece, she was
made up of
shapes, colours and shades.
Eyes a large oval shape
her nose a triangular sculpture against her soft features.
The skin on her nose and against her cheeks were a darker shade of olive,
compared to the rest of her imperfect countenance.
Hair like black coffee cascading down her back,
merely reaching her frail waist.
A sense of nostalgia surrounded her small frame.
The masterpieces she creates show sentimental meanings,
hidden with oval shapes and midnight blue pigmented sticks of oil,
much like herself.
Apr 18, 2015
Apr 18, 2015 at 5:00 PM UTC
We love to chase the wind through streaks of blinding bliss,
Tagging the glorious ideals of love, peace, friendship, even
The meaning of life, to weeping willows and pensive pebbles.
We admire the monochrome sky in all its barren blue or pregnant purple;
Hues of burple and plue are dismissed as being tedious, or just confused.
Fear not, photoshop will rectify this pigmented aberration.
We giggle at clouds that resemble kitchen utensils or mystical creatures;
“Hey look a teddy bear in a spacesuit with a flowerpot on his head wielding the Sword of Gryffindor!”
We declare sagely, with the acumen of a legendary bird watcher.
We resurrect grass angels by launching into horizontal jumping-jacks, and,
Just as a disclaimer, no flower was harmed in the process. Not that it matters,
As long as we did not soil our Lacoste and Burberry.
We spin a mixtape out of the torrential downpour, our tracks pitting
The pitter of regularity against the patter of inconstancy, synchronizing
The symphony of splashes to an undercurrent of nostalgia.
We kiss against the bark of an elm, and if a tree is not available in the vicinity,
We throw ourselves down a nearby hill, tumbling into a ball of moist romance,
Panting, as we bask in the studio lighting of the approving sun.
Every still is captured by a Lomo,
Every scene arrested in sepia motion,
Every moment ravished by the chichi Bohemian in us.
Nov 2, 2010
Nov 2, 2010 at 4:03 PM UTC
words fell
like broken
glass
from
your lips
onto
bloodstained
carpet
lacerations
searing your
bruised heart,
transplanting
its jagged rips
into mine
beats sharply feathered
like injured
wings,
angel eyes
pigmented my color,
blinded by a
cool sheen
hiding behind
tears
You are but a child,
young fresh entity
yet know the weight
of heavy
and suddenly
nothing else
matters
only your light
in my world,
however
dark you get
nothing material
can fix it and I will
stop it all
to press
the button
of time
and give
you
the
world
Jun 30, 2017
Jun 30, 2017 at 6:03 PM UTC
When we were young we used coloring books, full of black and white outlines just waiting for be made into something beautiful, waiting to be brought to life with colors.
When we were young the reaches of colors had no limits, we didn’t stick with what colors we are told were correct.
When we were young the princesses could be purple with green hair.
When we were young we didn’t know that the world is full of grey area, we didn’t realize that when you mix too many colors together all you get is a terrible shade of brown.
When we were young we let our imaginations run wild. We let our colors sparkle in the sun.
But, too many years with the sun beating down has faded our colors. Powerful beams slowly bleaching out the colors of joy, and sadness, rage and love. Until all that is left is white with little tinges of what used to be the worlds brightest hues turned grey.
We began to listen when we were told that the colors we had chosen were wrong. That a boy’s favorite color couldn’t be pink, that the trees and the grass had to be green, and the ocean was always blue.
The most pigmented personalities and the most vibrant people have become pastel, because it is easier to blend in with the crowd than stand out.
This world is not how it used to be, all of the color has been drained.
But, I think everyone has the potential to be filled with color. Everyone can be a light show at disney or fireworks on the fourth of july, everyone can be an easter egg, or a glow stick. Anyone can be a rainbow, they just have to let their colors be louder than the negativity of this messed up world.
So, spread your colors, blind everyone with your light, like that one teacher that doesn’t warn you before they turn on the lights. Play your music too loud, make sure that if they can’t see your colors they can hear them. Write, spill your heart out in words, stain the pages red with passion, or yellow with joy, or black when you are feeling hopeless.
Paint this world how you want,
Make the trees pink, and the grass blue,
And don’t color in the lines, because the most interesting pictures really never do.
May 8, 2014
May 8, 2014 at 8:02 AM UTC
Color, one word, thousands of references
It is an illusion, science perhaps may explain it
But people have utterly transformed its definition over the past decades
Is it pride? Is it wealth you carry within you once you are born precious yet so fragile?
Define it for me
Release the inner load of prejudiced assumptions
Passed down from generation to generation
Do not be afraid to speak your mind
For you are enlightening me
Go on, define it for me
Red, orange, blue and green
Purple, pink, white and colors we've already seen
Came in touch with, and accepted for what they seem
Whom we do not hesitate adoring, whilst waiting for what more of them there is to see
Colors, beautiful bundles of joy
Billions of them undiscovered
Yet willing to view
And yet unwilling to embrace one another solely because our skin tone is a shade darker, or a shade lighter?
I'm sorry, I thought we loved the thought of not having to unlock our gates to gardens full of plain, light pigmented roses
There's got to be the darker pigmented ones, and the yet to blossom ones
The ones that are yet to be labeled
By humanity's impaired vision
Mar 10, 2016
Mar 10, 2016 at 10:13 AM UTC
My mom once told me that freckles were angel kisses
Because around age seven other kids would ask me why I had dots on my face
As I grew older I soon realized that freckles were not actually angel kisses
I found out the cause of my freckles was from the lack of melanin I had in my skin
Every time I went under the sun, the rays would dot my face with brown pigmented circles
I used to absolutely hate my freckles
They covered my nose, my cheeks, my forehead, my arms and legs
I hated when people would compliment me on them because I didn't want that to be the only thing they noticed
After a long time of hating these brown specks scattered throughout my entire body
I finally looked at myself a little closer in the mirror
I noticed how they made my face pop and my arms look like a masterpiece
For the first time in my life I didn't see my freckles as an ugly connect-the-dots page
I saw my freckles as artwork
Unique paint droppings made by the sunlight
I no longer cared about the people who thought they made me look ugly
Because I started to think what if they're just jealous
Jealous that they have too much melanin so all they do is tan
Jealous that they cannot have this piece of artwork painted on their skin
Jealous that I have angel kisses and they don't
My mom still tells me to this day that my freckles are angel kisses
And I believe her.
Jul 3, 2017
Jul 3, 2017 at 11:21 PM UTC
i lick the rain from my lips
and kiss the moon goodnight in hopes of tasting the stars that you dream under
when you're lucky enough to sleep beneath a clear sky
and for your sake
i hope the clouds will always part for you come nightfall
and i wish the sun to dance across the apples of your cheeks as you smile
as sunbeams dot your face with pigmented music notes
and constellations waiting to be named
i hope you're smiling now
and day-dreaming
of rugged landscapes fading to rust as the thunder whispers the blues through the stillest night
i hope you smile when you think of me
seated around a cluttered table with extension cord lighting and a cheap beer
or rambling down a dirt road
or a metra track
don't forget that i'm magic
and that you are too
i hope that your favorite flowers bloom in fragrant plumes wafting high enough to cross the heavily guarded walls you've resurrected
i hope you won't spend a single second scared
or lonely
out there in the "great wide open"
but mostly i hope you'll never forget the road back west
to the desert dust i flourish in
Nov 19, 2012
Nov 19, 2012 at 3:24 PM UTC
Moth eaten land
thrown on water.
Strings of thread tie them loosely
together.
Pigmented
red and green
embossed with hilly sections.
Thin air
thin words
thin reflections.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 9:51 PM UTC
They say where ever your birthmark is located on your body
Is where you were stabbed, shot, hung or whatever other means
Of death are plausible in your past life.
I have come to the conclusion
That I am not human.
I do not have a birthmark anywhere on my body
A patch of pigmented skin different from the rest
This is both englightening and very very very dissapointing
This means there was never a low blow to my calf, a karate chop at my neck, a gunshot to my ankle
Nothing to symbolize that I once maybe had another life.
A life where I was the cracks in the sidwalk
or the wind gently stirring up chaos on days when I just **** felt like being noticed
or maybe i lived out my seven year old dreams of becoming the sixth member of the Spice Girls
or even an NSYNC groupie
I will never know.
I never emerged from my mothers womb
With a scar baring my worth
I was never blessed with a kiss from an angel
As other mothers told their children
I was never born with a birthmark,
and while this is perfectly natural.
I am very dissapointed, beacause maybe I was never given a chance.
Maybe I was crushed before I entered the world
A womb filled with disgust and hatred
Maybe I preferred to stay as the cracks in the concrete or the wind
Because I'd rather deal with the simple casualities of life rather than the mess humans tend to create
Maybe I was never given a second chance because
I never made something of myself here first.
Or just maybe there is a possiblity that I'm immortal
and if that's the case.
You are all invited to my 106th birthday party.
Feb 12, 2012
Feb 12, 2012 at 9:12 PM UTC
Dynamite, dynamite
Put the light out.
The pigmented ones
for their freedom devout.
Dynamite, dynamite
Douse these flames
Years they have tried,
Converted their names.
Though we are the same
but differently tamed
to put out the fire
is their only desire.
The fuse shortens,
Heat ensues
Fear protrudes.
Douse the flame
before dynamite explodes.
Jan 30, 2013
Jan 30, 2013 at 7:07 AM UTC
This Cleverly Clawed Society,
These Painted Persuasive People,
With Their Apparently Sweet Talks,
They're All Eating Us Alive!
This Hyper Humane Society,
These Perpetually Punishing People,
With Their Evidently Sugary Eyes,
They're All Feasting Us Alive!!
This Sweetly Sociable Society,
These Poorly Pigmented People,
With Their Heavily Sharpened Teeth,
They're All Gorging Us Alive!!!
Dec 3, 2012
Dec 3, 2012 at 7:13 AM UTC
You look at me
I smile
Its funny how I lie
Its funny how you tilt your head and I make excuses
Its silly this feeling
This green light far darker than Gatsby's
the envious undertones of a pigmented leaf
poignant in its search to be perfect
Its silly to feel I'm not enough
but I'm silly
And I love her
So I smile and pretend
I'm not inadequate
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 7:23 PM UTC
Darling, let me love you,
the way I want to,
the way you want me to.
let me spill all my feelings,
all my love,
my everything to you.
Let me be the morning dew and you,
be the petals of the loveliest rose.
I'd touch you all over,
the faintest touch of my lips,
all over your soft divine skin
would make you more pigmented
than you already are.
Let me tickle you and arouse you,
and make you want me more.
You’d try to push me away,
but avert me from falling too.
And I shall run wild over you,
just when your thirsty lips drag me rapidly to you.
And as I get closer to your lips,
I would see a shy smile in your rosy face.
I would hold you tightly,
give you the kiss of the millennium,
and you would want me more;
as if the feeling is new.
My every touch, my every breath,
would make you feel more complete,
like you’re discovering yourself in you,
via me.
Never has been your body caressed,
never have you been to this utopia,
as I show you the doorway to paradise,
and you would not want me to stop.
So I would go on,
Quenching every thirst,
again and again.
And you would be there,
soaked, all wet.
Right at that time,
we would be two bodies as one.
Your identity becomes mine,
and mine, yours.
And when I see you again,
I visualize no shyness in you, anymore.
I see, love, affection, satisfaction, and moreover,
a complete lady in you.
And I would shine,
like a diamond with you.
And that’s when the world sees,
an epitome of beauty, in us.
Sparkling dew drops in a blossomed rose.
Nov 29, 2014
Nov 29, 2014 at 12:17 AM UTC
I light a flame in protest
Waxy comfort, my rebottle to this
credentialed crisis
--Wildfires slither up to my terrain
And me,
The fire caught me years ago
I look out to choked sky
My disposable golden rod environment
finally surrenders and declares--"yes, me too."
I whisper back under smoky breath--"it's about time."
Blinking away ember tears...
I'm still blinking them down blue cheeks.
My face has been striped wet for so long
I'm pigmented in bubbled weariness
Underneath my epidermis
I block each volcanic bolo punch,
loving masochistic movement
My lush goodness taps out to
Core's tectonic intensity
My earthy green
Covered with licking ***** lava
My maroon sadness seeps through
Every ******* time
My tears blamed on the Tetons
Aug 5, 2015
Aug 5, 2015 at 5:01 PM UTC
We never obliged ourselves with any sort of passion or alignment with natures splendor, we just flip-flop'd about like disenfranchized plastic pieces of footwear; Fleetingly and disparingly as we float adrift through a toxic sea of consumerism, entranced with the notion of celebrity, swirling and whirling around until we undoubtabley wash ashore onto the pristine beaches of someones elses uncorrupted, isolated and darkly pigmented subconscious. Ready and willing to establish order in the magnitude of exploitation and apathy. As we scream freedom from tryanny, TV to TV, a bunch of muted and silenced over commercialized under adulterated humans trickle fed lies through screens. Everyone knows but who is speaking up, As Miley Circus flies across the manufactured dream a handful of youth stand up and puke as they throw there hands up like the ones before them and say "this isn't my scene!"
Oct 25, 2013
Oct 25, 2013 at 5:51 AM UTC
I returned to the place
where I use to escape
from the pedestrian affairs
of life in suburbia.
Many nights spent
collapsed on the pavement
swapping humdrum stories
of teenage angst.
It was the end of a road
just north of town
with nothing but swampland
in two directions.
Far enough away
from the sprawl of the city
to understand quiet
without getting lost.
An abundance of stars
made us feel insignificant
and the freedom of isolation
gave us confidence and strength.
It was balanced and beautiful
like we were, back then,
just the right amount
of elation and confusion.
So then it was silly, I guess
for me to expect
that a place like that
would still be the same.
It's a strip mall now,
sleek and amalgamated
and the unkempt sawgrass
replaced with pigmented mulch.
Feb 3, 2013
Feb 3, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
I'll have my thought-provocative chamomile island
Hold your breath if you'd like
As long as it lasts, I'll pull you to the pools
Where the warmth doesn't sink nor spike
It bubbles with treasure awaiting
Marked as rubble that keeps procreating
These caverns, they'll be warm as a mother's arms
The sea life will smile back, warm
As the breeze that will dry your walk home
This is sand I could sleep on, sand that couldn't exfoliate, it's
Smaller than your pores
The roar of a ****** the waves arching spine
Sighing as the loamy foam symbolizes sweet decline
Rind of the ***** sun
So ripe it could puncture with your own thumb
Heated juices soak the soil
Feed the trees, learn your new roots
Swaying palm leaves lap your back
Laughter breaks out in the mouth of the land
Pigmented petals kiss your core
The trustworthy breeze tucks around your form
Of course you'll be staying, even though you never went
We'll pass our days more perfect than the prior hours spent.
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 12:40 AM UTC
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink
pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears
narcissists filled with self loathing
composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft
our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible
defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity
our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss
couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die
running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron
like the sky
we are rewritten each day
yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are
pages
in a book we can barely read
remaking and trimming
editing ourselves
to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
May 23, 2025
May 23, 2025 at 11:07 PM UTC
settle, then, in serpentine
words once heard when
mixing roses and turpentine -
tales spun again in oils
flung on canvas sheets
always stretched too tight.
tonight a frail frame
might break
before colors make pictures.
It's only cheap pine
that holds it all together,
old bones with thin skin
you'd see through were
it not for the layers of
pigmented emulsions of
emotions trying to hide
the white, wordless,
grinning death waiting
underneath
May 22, 2010
May 22, 2010 at 8:09 PM UTC