"prettiness" poems
Picasso
you give us things
which
bulge:grunting lungs pumped full of sharp thick mind
you make us shrill
presents always
shut in the sumptuous screech of
simplicity
(out of the
black unbunged
Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes
or
between squeals of
Nothing grabbed with circular shrieking tightness
solid screams whispers.)
Lumberman of the Distinct
your brain’s
axe only chops hugest inherent
Trees of Ego,from
whose living and biggest
bodies lopped
of every
prettiness
you hew form truly
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I watch the prom Dance,
In an awkward stance,
my friends walk in with dates,
and the excitement Abates.
Alone in a corner,
I mope like a mourner,
With no partner to dance with,
No gentleman to prance with.
Amidst the mirth and cheers,
My eyes fill up with tears.
I rush out into the open air,
And by Jove! I see Voltaire!
With his satirical charms,
He draws me in his arms.
As I sway to the beats,
I'm waltzing with Keats.
Causing my funny bone to arouse,
Enters P.G. Wodehouse!
Using nonchalant wittiness,
He acknowledges my prettiness.
And then walks in Shakespeare,
Who wipes away my tear,
And my senses curdle like curds,
As he showers me with words.
While I repress the excited child,
I'm swaying with Oscar Wilde.
I'm rendered helplessly mute,
With his phrases so astute.
With a proposal so verse-y,
I'm serenaded by Shelly B. Percy.
And before this fantasy can spoil,
I fox trot with Conan Doyle.
And thus literally seduced,
into putty I'm reduced.
I am platonic-ally smitten,
By the genius of what they've written.
The dating circus can’t make me cry,
because a host of paramours have I.
Jul 3, 2014
Jul 3, 2014 at 3:20 AM UTC
Enid removes her glasses
wipes them
on the hem
of her skirt
tries to clean off
the smeariness
she breathes on them
they cloud up
she wipes them again
I watch her
near the wall
of the playground
after lunch
waiting for her
are they better now?
she asks me
I look through them
the view is magnified
a million times
one big blur to me
yes that's better
I say
giving them
back to her
and watching
as she puts them
back on
pushes the wire arms
over her ears
then pulls the hair
over her ears again
is it all right now?
she asks me
sure I can see your eyes
clear as day
she nods
and looks
at the playground
and the other kids at play
why do some boys
call me four eyes?
or ugly bucket?
she asks
some kids are just finks
ignore them
I tell her
I can't help it
if I have to wear glasses
or am ugly
she says
intelligent people
wear glasses
and hey you're not ugly
I think you are
quite a pretty girl
as they go
she looks at me doubtfully
and then at the kids
and look Mrs M
wears glasses
and she's a teacher
and bright
Enid sighs and sits
on the steps
leading down
into the playground
even my dad thinks
I'm ugly
she says softly
you're old man
wouldn't know prettiness
if it came up
and introduced itself
I say
she smiles
do you think
I'm ugly?
I frown and peer at her
look I'm no expert
being a 9 year old kid
like you
but you can be
my Maid Marion
to my Robin Hood any day
could I?
she says
sure you could
she smiles wider
and says
thank you Benny
and walks down
into the playground
and goes play skip rope
with a couple of girls
by a wall
and I walk
down into
the playground
feeling six feet tall.
Mar 13, 2015
Mar 13, 2015 at 3:53 AM UTC
Centered around your neck, the prettiness of the stainless steel shines locked in to place, your Daddy loves you more this day.
On bended knees, you wait, as I approach with it in my hand, tilt your head back as I place it around, and snap the lock down.
Let it dangle, feel the weight, feel the love, the symbolism of you and I, is more then a piece of metal, it is pure love I say.
Little One, you are the first, truly are to be offered this gift, No one before you, no not even her, your loved removed a frown.
Ask yourself, are you worthy to be my submissive? Worthy to be my baby girl? Worthy to love me forever? Worthy to be mine.
Remember this, remember it clearly, the answer to those questions is simple, the answer is yes, forever you will be.
Only you will forever be my property, the stainless around your neck is the significance of this, missing with no shine.
Never, forget my love, forget that I own you, please show the world in our own little way, that you are owned, not free.
Jun 1, 2016
Jun 1, 2016 at 10:36 AM UTC
Then there are days
When with a sulking face
I go through everyone's poems
Including my own
And wonder with bitter scorn
What kick do these people get
From all this rhyme-rhyme business
Just say it all in one line, no
Why coat it with metaphorical prettiness
Don't worry friends,
I hope to self-heal out of this strange daze
Probably just going through
A grumpy phase.
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 5:23 PM UTC
You’ll never see me again. Who’s going to cry for you? This pen writes in black, but its green. I want to dance under a silly disco ball. I want to feel the earth on my skin. dig in the dirt, bury myself in the sand, climb a tree and swim in the sea. looking over me. I want to paint my nails with every color in those kindergarten classrooms, every pattern we learn in geometry. I want to no longer feel the need to look this color (arrow pointing to the color of the paper: red). I want to do yoga when I can and go for runs and eat healthy. I want to starve and feel hungry and weightless 24/7. I want to make a decision. I want to make music. I want to dance with a stranger, hands held, eyes close and sweaty bodys. I want to get their number and fall in love. I want a movie moment. I want to kiss everyone. I want to be wanted. I want to apologize to everyone. I want to stare into someones eyes; not longingly, but lovingly. I want them to look back just the same. I want them to make me things and work for me and only me. “make sure to write a poem about my prettiness”. I want to have a higher self esteem than her. I want people to come when not directly called. I want to look **** I want to hold someone **** I want *** to be my celebration for (arrow for where my self esteem is better). I want to think rationally always. I want to stop disappointing people I care about. I want to know the difference between a good impulse and a bad impulse. I want people to be okay with what I want. I want to sleep. I want to kiss. I want to give up smoking. I want to give up on my quest for the perfection every one speaks of. I want to foster dogs.
Oct 23, 2012
Oct 23, 2012 at 8:46 PM UTC
we were sisters, weren't we?
i remember when we were young -
everything was easy then, wasn't it?
before your beauty bloomed and
my plainness stayed,
before the curve of your hips and the sparks of your smile,
set my mother's heart on fire.
we were sisters, weren't we?
when we used to kneel by the hearth for fun,
digging up buried treasure,
sifting through the ashes with our clean-girl hearts,
laughing.
that was before the bitterness choked our home.
we were sisters, weren't we?
you used to crawl under the covers with me,
whisper ghost stories and laugh at me when i got scared.
i reflected your prettiness then,
it shone on me like
the sun on a mirror,
my glass face unmemorable and making yours
all the more dazzling
(not that we knew it:
we were both beautiful,
before we knew any better)
we were sisters, weren't we?
i held your hand when my mother cut you with her words,
i stood up for you when she worked you, i did.
i never once raised a word when you would come to my room,
crying and
raving about her.
i held you when your missing for your own mother rose up sharp in your heart, and i
defended you when my mother spread words like thorns in the villages.
i never once envied you your beauty.
we were sisters, weren't we?
and when that prince came for you,
laughing and
pebbling our window with stones,
i helped you shimmy out into his arms.
i would clean the mud off your shoes when you would stumble back in,
right before the sun came up,
i would put you to bed and make you tea to warm the early-morning chill out of your rose-pink cheeks,
and i waited for you that night you didn't come back.
we were sisters, weren't we?
and you left us.
Jun 9, 2012
Jun 9, 2012 at 3:17 PM UTC
High on the mountain, overlooking the valley,
the valley where I was born, is a wooden bench.
Standing to attention are the bottom of the deep V
are houses, all the same, all in a row.
From the bench the village can be watched
It's comings and goings, the neighbours gossiping
talking about nothing and everything.
Everyone is there down below,
John the butcher, Dai the milk, Mair the bread,
Oliver's shop, where anything and everything was for sale.
A picturesque Welsh valley, where everyone is actually
Psychotic, and where you'll never leave except in a coffin feet first.
Those of us that get out, stay out.
Old feuds still burn, families not talking,
not remembering how it started.
Chocolate box prettiness masks the tension,
the hate, the jealousies, the negativity held
in the ***** of the valley.
How green was my valley?
It wasn't green, it's colour was red, like a hell fire.
Oh, the trees were green, the mountain was glorious
but that valley was poison.
Jun 7, 2014
Jun 7, 2014 at 12:24 PM UTC
when i was just a little girl
mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
and at four years old, sitting with a mirror
i batted my big green eyes, and simply believed her
for this was just something that i'd always been told
it was a fact of the world that i was beautiful
six years old, with long, blonde curls
and mama said, "you're the prettiest girl in the world"
i remembered the phrase, but doubted her words
i had no front teeth, and a voice too soft to be heard
but it must've been true, 'cause mama's don't lie
but how could it be that the prettiest girl would be so shy?
eight years old, with a baseball cap on my head
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i looked down at my soccer jersey and cleats
"if i'm so pretty how come i have such big feet?"
but mama didn't miss a beat, she was so smart
she said, "you're prettiness shines through your great big heart"
ten years old, with a notebook and a pencil full of lead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i barely heard the words, and decided i was fat
pretty girls like shopping, not books and baseball bats
and the pretty girls don't need to constantly be reading
because when you see a pretty boy, a pretty girl is leading
twelve years old, and wishing i was dead
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, and i was severely ******
if i'm so pretty then what are all these ugly scars left on my wrist?
but i nodded to my mother, and told her that i knew
maybe i was dying, but i wouldn't bring mom down, too
fourteen years old, lying in my bed
"you're the prettiest girl in the world," mama said
i knew it was a lie, but i'd made my peace with that
i'd always be a little ugly, i'd always be a little fat
i didn't look like a model, but that was okay
i never would be pretty, but who cares, anyways?
now i'm fifteen, and i'm starting to be okay
"you're the prettiest girl in the world" is what mama will say
i know i'm not the prettiest, but more importantly, i'm kind
real beauty isn't in the face, real beauty's in the mind
i'm learning to accept the hand that i've been dealt
and i'm starting to heal my heart after all the pain i've felt
Jan 14, 2014
Jan 14, 2014 at 9:45 PM UTC
Infinite amounts of definitions could not depict
The extent to which a structured norm
Is measured
Blindness adjoins clarity, while sight provokes vanity
It is an aspect unhindered, lacking certainty
A single word yet so many portraits
Drawn on the canvas of our linked pathways
If you ask me about beauty, don’t
For my lips would quiver nonsense to you, to me
The mass of the universe that surrounds our whole being
The endless rows of glimmering stars that speak to our vulnerable eyes
Or perhaps, the raging force of life that springs from within us
If you ask me about beauty, don’t
Because you would have to look at yourselves to see
The beaming smiles corresponding with velvet risings of cheeks
The abundance of glistening tears that have embodied those very same
And even, the flashing spark of joy which invites a feeling of utter content
If you ask me about beauty, don’t
Otherwise there would be an influx of sentiments towards
The prettiness of colored nature, steadiness of height-breaking hills
The calmness of the bare sound of waves crashing into an advocacy for peace
The building blocks of surroundings that determine you and me
So if you ever want to ask me about beauty,
Bare the consequences in mind
Just the elaborate thought of such a question
Could raise a plethora of reasonings
Oct 30, 2018
Oct 30, 2018 at 7:21 AM UTC
We shall have our little day.
Take my hand and travel still
Round and round the little way,
Up and down the little hill.
It is good to love again;
Scan the renovated skies,
Dip and drive the idling pen,
Sweetly tint the paling lies.
Trace the dripping, pierced heart,
Speak the fair, insistent verse,
Vow to God, and slip apart,
Little better, Little worse.
Would we need not know before
How shall end this prettiness;
One of us must love the more,
One of us shall love the less.
Thus it is, and so it goes;
We shall have our day, my dear.
Where, unwilling, dies the rose
Buds the new, another year.
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The many moving things,
moving scenes; that are stuck in between my eyes.
Look at life; and it's fragile creations,
through the window's glass.
Held on the weight of time,
those holding onto their past. But it all must change;
from the old seasons to those anew.
The many winters of cold, soon surpasses on the grass.
So many pictures, so many little things,
and so many moments. All caught in the prettiness
of an everlasting flower.
A tower plant, trying to kiss the glorious sun,
the Son of Man, and the sweetest rose.
The holies of all holies; resides inside of me.
Walking the testimonials upon my feet.
For how far have I gone to seek?
I've seen blackness, as a changing tide of darkness.
A ***** sheet; barely covering the littlest sin. But there's
still the greatest of all light within.
_A Christ within me._
How are my eyes shut to the window;
and their curtains covering itself on a dream?
A dream to be free.
_Freedom of will._
_Freedom of speech._
_Freedom to choose peace._
I scratch the tiny hairs under my chin,
biting the collar of my shirt with my dry lips.
There's no duty to being empty all your life.
No command to live that way, or any sort of drill.
But there's a thirst on my tongue,
running down to my heart. My spirit's cup is waiting
to be overfilled. And to go on and spill.
I as myself,
only long to be spirit filled.
Holy Spirit come inside of me.
_A thousand pictures in the window,_
_and I only long for the one picture of Him._
Mar 12, 2022
Mar 12, 2022 at 1:31 PM UTC
Keep head high, little girl.
And your heart as an open book.
Think good thoughts of who you are,
so other girls can take a look.
Your self esteem, little girl,
should be pumped up wherever you can.
But shouldn't depend on prettiness,
or the sugary words of a man.
Your self esteem needs to be balanced.
Not arrogant or smug at it's core.
For the sun does not rise and set on you,
but nor is garbage dumped at your door.
So keep head high, little girl.
And your heart as an open book.
Your self esteem will then be lifted,
and the whole world will take a look.
Sep 21, 2014
Sep 21, 2014 at 7:18 AM UTC
Thy effigy was so charming
It can grips a heart
Thy face of youthfulness
It can tranquilized a war
Many roses envied thee
Their complaints was loudly burst
That blessed was unjust
That you owned a beauty, to them ugliness
Thy prettiness a weapon
Can slave a kingdom
But it feared someone
The monstrous beast - the time
Thy beauty was rotten
The one that allured thousand kings
Thy effulgence doom
A star that used to be dream...
written: July 31, 2001 at 7:00 pm
Mysterious Aries
Nov 11, 2015
Nov 11, 2015 at 10:01 AM UTC
Envy
You live by your own world gasping for air to breathe.
You live by the choice you’ve made,
wandering everywhere, fulfilling every single wish of yours.
Standing by the corner of this space,
I envy you by far.
Seeing you laugh by the joke of others.
Seeing you smile by the people who colours up your life.
Seeing you envy others while i envy yours.
The path you walk along the isle,
i smell your lovely scent from behind.
I envy you by far.
You are lovely in your own ways.
Your actions speak louder than the word pretty. You’re pretty in every definition and you vanish all ambiguity that speak of others.
You are pretty and if i were to see more of you, i have to be breathing more than i usually do.
To calm myself, to convince myself that i can take such prettiness.
Because of all these, i envy you.
Jan 2, 2014
Jan 2, 2014 at 6:28 AM UTC
There is a scratch I cannot itch
on the surface of my belly,
where my nails used to dig deeper and deeper
until I bit them off one nervous night
and the prettiness of my hands,
of the delicacy of my fingers,
were chewed up mindlessly since old habits
die hard.
I cannot scratch this itch
no matter how many tears are shed
or nails are grown
because this itch burns deeper than old wounds.
It begs to be remembered,
begs time and time again to be known,
swelling on the surface of my sunken belly.
Without nails, without beauty,
I scratch my way to the bone
where the little voice lays in the cracks of my soul
and tells me to remember the ugly inside
the thoughts wither away and an old habit revives
itching, just itching, bleeding for life.
Though my nails have cracked
and my hands are sore,
my stomach expands with lines marked
from long nights before.
I remember then what I tried to forget,
because old habits only die
when new ones replace it.
Jul 22, 2014
Jul 22, 2014 at 12:26 PM UTC
I often wonder,
sometimes, if I’m
pretty.
My mother and
friends will tell me
it’s a silly question,
but is it? And what
is the answer I’m
looking for?
I know the way
my hair, in russet
mantle clad, springs
down my back is
pleasing to the eye
(at least to mine).
I know the way my
tall figure—yet not like
a statue or a pillar—
asserts itself into
the open air, similar
to a curved vase—at
times smiling, at times
the sudden night.
My hands, perfect
for piano playing
as grandpa always
said, are long stalks
of wheat that reach
toward heaven, wait-
ing to be reaped.
My eyes, green
when choleric
and hazel when
stable, are the
exclamation points
and periods of
my face—who
could interpret
my action-prose
without them?
And my face…
my face…what
do I think of you?
Are you pretty?
Even beautiful?
I can answer
this question
on my own—
without a lover’s
flattering tongue.
Face, you are
like my heart—
blemished of
course, but still
clean and pleasant.
There is indeed
a beauty in your
length and modest
smile—a forehead
too high like my
pride—but still,
balanced—but still,
pretty.
Mar 31, 2012
Mar 31, 2012 at 5:06 PM UTC
Of all the gifts on Scotland's hills
The primrose is most fair
It stops the hiker in their tracks
And keeps them there to stare
At its kind form and beauty soft
I love it I confide
As deep among the heather blooms
It almost seems to hide
Like a young maid who may not know
That beauty's come her way
While others see her prettiness
And long with her to stay
So if you see that yellow bloom
When summer comes around
You'll know it is a precious thing
On Scotland's hills you've found.
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 1:01 PM UTC
T-Together they'll create a lovely moon
W-Wonderful is their adoration's boon
O-Oneness of love this pair shall festoon
H-Harmonic shall they be together
E-Exquisite of a meshing love tether
A-Abiding in all kinds of weather
R- Resplendently matching with other
T-Tenderness their eternal soft feather
S-Special the song of amity's heather
B-Bounty and plenty e'er they'll possess
E-Elated this pair in joyous congress
A-Always to be in the realms of fullness
T-Twined by braids to true loveliness
I-Infinite the land of affection's prettiness
N-Naught shall blight their gleefulness
G-Glories shared in a bower of sweetness
A-Aligned in all that they say and do
S-Sublime the narrative of these two
O-Of love's serenade they'll endlessly play
N-Nicely coalescing in each and every way
E-Ecstatic this their devotional interplay
Nov 13, 2014
Nov 13, 2014 at 6:29 PM UTC
Teachers, moms, nurturing women always,
feel my pain.
As I stick my fingers into my mouth,
and try to chew off my insecurities.
Or my nervousness.
Or chewing off my boredom.
I'll chew off anything.
Can I bite your nails for you?
That's how I care for you.
I'll bite off your insecurity. Your pain. Your boredom.
Your lack of knowledge. Your prettiness.
I'd bite it all off for,
this is a love curse.
You had to walk in at this moment didn't you,
so I can give you what you need,
so I can bite off all that we can chew.
I want you to be happy. You will be happy.
Probably not with me. I want everything.
You're right about that.
I don't want you to have to bite your fingers.
I want to bite them all for you,
you’re not this way though.
I know you.
You have to do things, I have to do things.
I cant be your teacher.
Our paths cant cross,
and I cant mistake your hands for mine.
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 1:21 PM UTC
You wear your presence lightly,
you politely undermine it
for the folks who'd find it fright'ning
in the normal daily grind
You are jocular and flighty
wear a self-effacing grace
although your shoulders might be mighty
were they not so undermined
We met at a rehearsal
for an amateur dramatic act
to shrink the universal
to a comfortable size
They took a work of genius
the timeless peerless grandeur
and they whittled it to meaninglessness -
There I caught your eye.
"I hear you need a drummer!"
you intoned in toffee baritone
and sad, diluted Shakespeare
did evaporate tout suite
"We're gigging in the summer!"
I replied in my delight and then
I knew I'd found a friend
who might just help me keep the beat.
I found you were an artist
of broken, brittle beauty
who believed an artists' duty
was to challenge and defy
Who had washed up in the genteel
artists' village of Kircudbright
where the art is safe and snooty,
boats and trees and sunny sky
But your canvas is elastic
is electric and eclectic
as you drastically cast an angry
eye across it all
Any prettiness is sitting
on a nauseous unwellness
where the skeleton of Elvis
boogies by a butcher's stall
Well we found some fellow feeling
in our mutual defiance
casting darts at art and science
and amusing just ourselves
Made some music, sank some bevvies
wrote a book, got raging drunk
but what we managed withered, shrunk
by what we planned and simply shelved.
Well it seems that I've been hoping
that our business was unfinished
that our plans were undiminished
by the passing of the years
That some catalyst would manifest
and shake us into action
dissipate the dull distraction
of the daily hopes and fears.
But it seems that you are leaving
that your talent, brightly blazing
and the fact that you're amazing
has been missed by this wee town
Well I undersand it, ******
but I'll miss you now, my brother
and the tumbled jumbled colour
that you spun from Solway brown.
Sep 17, 2016
Sep 17, 2016 at 9:45 AM UTC
Your prettiness is seeping through
Out from the dress I took from you
So pretty
And my emptiness is swollen shut
Always a wretch - I have become
So empty
And please, please don't leave me
I'm watching Naomi, full bloom
I'm hoping she will soon explode
Into one billion tastes and tunes
One billion angels come and hold her down
They could hold her down until she shines
I'm tasting Naomi's perfume
*It tastes like **** and I must say*
She comes and goes most afternoons
One billion lovers wave and love her now
They could love her now and so could I
There is no Naomi in view
She walks through Cambridge stocks and strolls
And if she only really knew
One billion angels could come and save her soul
They could save her soul until she shines
So pretty
And please, please don't leave me here.
Feb 8, 2017
Feb 8, 2017 at 1:33 PM UTC
As you lay on the water,
Flowers braided into your hair,
Your gender branded into your skin,
What did you sing?
Did you sing of your father, his wealth, his ambition,
The knife in his chest, like the knife in your back
When you realised his tenderness was to tender you,
His living, unthinking coin?
Did you sing of your brother, his sword, his strength,
and the way that you felt as he leaped into your grave,
Your heroic knight, hid you from daylight,
Using you as a way to fight?
Did you sing of your lover, who you thought was your lover,
He took your father, your mind, your words from your mouth,
Your flowers, your violets, he wilted you, drained you,
You poor, helpless fish
Out of water.
You should sing of your Queen, who scattered your flowers,
Covered your body with scent and prettiness,
Told your story, mourned your death;
And sing of you,
The serpent under the flowers,
Hissing your hatred and spite and betrayal,
For no one heard you, no one cared, no one respected your words
But we do,
As your men drag you under the water, woven into your clothes, so tight on your skin,
We hear your song,
Dear one,
Your strength lives on.
Jan 14, 2016
Jan 14, 2016 at 3:02 PM UTC
How to start an ode to one’s dear daughter
Remains a true protégé to her mighty gist
In the beautiful pearls that they are not loyal
Brains and poetry are not loyal to one,
Yes, they can find abode in any and all,
As the spectre of poetry is haunting Africa,
It comes straight from University of Wits,
Beautiful like an angel in a lion’s roar
She sings and chants in a unique power,
Perhaps available in the paragonic muse,
The voice of reason is out above vice
Often laziness pays as tribute to virtue
As her excellence habitually comes forth
The daughter of Africa here heals my heart
Her small mandibles crests my soul to bliss
Her powerful poetry does marvel to my home,
Vuyelwa is bound above the scent in the name
As she puts melanin in the injured chocolate skin
To restore Africa back to her pedestal of glory
As positive shame in the name devoid of Christ
Is effortlessly condemned to ash pit of selfish culture,
To-night she bits you not to **** her blackness
Nor to accuse her again of being a black Soweto
Out of racial envy to preserve your intolerant self
She has promised freedom of space in your bed
Freedom of space in your royal cultural bed,
Vuyelwa my daughter your birth was happiness
To our poor home in the blackness of Maluleke,
Your slender and tall physique; goddess’s poise
In her holy ministry of poetized freedom to all
Whether white like snow or as black as Africa,
Your only anchorage of prettiness to sing my songs
Sing my songs in the name of our mother
You do Africa proud to manage your gods,
As the spectre of poetry foot loose from nether
Is haunting Africa, with art in vogue and reason
Singing to Africa what others derided to eerie
Africa can too sing in the voices of excellence
In lyrics and other all Africa can sing
African can sing Vuyelwa can sing
Can sing and chant in the voice of the people.
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 7:03 AM UTC