"warpaint" poems
They get excited over the waves flowing when I walk by.
They look so weak
And I feel so strong
But then it’s all the same
I feel like this makeup is warpaint and my short dress sometimes turns into armor.
Honestly
I would wash over the world with my waters and crush buildings with the wind at my command.
But I can’t
Instead I have a flute playing wonderful songs and all these boys follow me into the ocean.
To drown
While I lay there unsatisfied
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
so this night, I set stars heavy on my brow
and paint my lips with ash
a courting ritual, a lady’s rite—
my warpaint is the lean of my hips,
my sword, the word of gods in my mouth.
yea, I will rule thee
like the sea of my birth
and the snows of my forests,
and you will think it is you who are king.
my warpaint is the curve of my throat,
my sword, the feather-touch of fingers.
do not think that I will hesitate
to take what is divine right.
the splendor,
the agony,
the death
is mine.
Jul 25, 2014
Jul 25, 2014 at 2:07 AM UTC
At sunrise
I awake from
A violent comatose
I welcome the fiery rain
Soak my flesh from the faucet
Taking deep breathes in stride
With an arsonist anthem playing
Eyes closed and heart racing
The immolation takes flight
Bones made ash become warpaint
A far cry from help as I burn
An unstable dynamo ready to blow
Sep 14, 2016
Sep 14, 2016 at 11:22 AM UTC
I love how hard it is for all of us to accept ourselves,
Putting on elaborate masks,
To go parading amongst the phonies.
I love how we all talk to and about each other,
But never try to repair the broken relationships,
But what I love the most is
how we all complain about our position,
but never seek the answers to put our minds at rest,
To keep the past in the past and move to whats best.
You sit here reading this,
And think,
"What a hypocrite!"
"What a beast!"
But I see my flaws,
and I know who I am,
Im working to help myself,
on levels that most don't understand,
Because while most put on masks,
I put on war paint,
and march into battle,
facing the demons of my past,
to look foreward to that brighter future.
And the truth is
I love all these things
because I sit back and realize,
that im not a warrior,
that is battling alone,
that we're all going through the same situations,
Just different scenarios.
that we all have difficulties,
living with ourselves,
The same difficulty facing the monsters in the mirror.
But it's time for us all to face the facts,
To bring out the war paint,
and throw out the masks.
Time to smear it all over,
cover up the flakes and cracks,
It's time to march into battle,
to beat down our demons,
wipe off the shame and sorrows of the past,
walk triumphantly into the sunset,
head held high and soul held higher,
and never look back.
Apr 2, 2014
Apr 2, 2014 at 8:14 PM UTC
little feet dashing across the playground with light-up shoes and arms raised and poised to hold our weaponry. swift movements mark the territory with memories of traipsing through our makeshift castles. when we’re children we gallantly save princesses with long tresses who cry from the tops of towers, fearing uproarious dragons and the darkness of the sky. we protect the princesses from terror, and some of us grow up to become them and learn to protect ourselves. the tall dragons shed their prismatic scales and flinch as they feel the girth of our swords. after much opposition, we face our fears and instantaneously make the final strike and become victorious. we turn and look through the binoculars of our hands and spot nimble thieves stealing the shimmering scales in exchange for their own greed. they climb medieval walls and we try to catch them. impulse clutters our line of vision and we go because there is no time to waste, we don’t want to lose them. sometimes they return the stolen treasure and sometimes its a lost cause. we learn the latter later, through long sighs at lonely 2 ams after seemingly infinite words have spilled out on paper and out loud out to those who can’t come back and those who can but won’t. but the former fleshes itself out when we experience moments of kismet. these days where we share conversations with people who satiate the hollow corners of our hearts and walk outside and breathe in the petrichor just as the sun has wriggled its way into the sky. we learn life is as vivid as any story we become momentarily enchanted by. people come and go as fast as the pages that inspired our childhood adventures turn, and everything happens at once. we face demons as beastly as our dragons but we have our warpaint on no matter how hastily drawn it is, and we convince ourselves of our strength until it’s real to us.
we were the heroes of the story then, light-up shoes running across the playground, and we are the heroes of the story now, playing and living in the light-up world.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 10:01 PM UTC
To all the lovers who’ve been lost, abandoned, or left behind,
a word of wisdom, yourself you must find,
let the tears become warpaint as they streak your face,
let the silence of loneliness be your most powerful embrace,
so remember as you fall asleep at night,
you are courageous, you are strong, and everything will be alright.
Jan 15, 2017
Jan 15, 2017 at 8:41 AM UTC
what do i need
to get back on my feet?
aha
ha
ha.
first of all
there are no feet
no one
has
feet
and if they did
there would be
no getting back on them.
there is only
crawling
and it is a miserable way
to get around.
what do i need?
i need my hair
to grow back at an unreasonably fast rate.
i need the winter to retreat.
i need the sun in the sky.
i need someone to believe in me
what do i need?
a map.
a bulldozer.
warpaint.
gold.
...and a winning attitude.
Nov 7, 2013
Nov 7, 2013 at 1:25 AM UTC
It's the same dull presentation every year.
Her friends all aware.
She stands out today,
but then again,
not really.
She is of the few who remembered,
the occasion that is.
Simple black dress.
Black boots.
Poppy ablaze on her heart.
She is quiet today.
The Marlboro-huffing voice,
crackles over the P.A.,
telling students to report to the cafetorium.
She rises out of her seat,
smoothes her dress,
and straightens her poppy.
She is first to hand in the annual
"I Will Remember..."
slip of paper.
Along with her older brother's name.
Not looking back as she leaves.
Everyone files into their seats,
their bland, identical, mauve-coloured seats;
fidgeting before they even sit.
The "populars" in front of her,
texting and tweeting life away.
Insanity.
She silently studies the band, bitter as can be.
All there for extra cred, or to get out of class.
"Delinquents reading sheet music"
Printed on white, crisp new paper,
only to be forgotten about,
or thrown out tomorrow.
The anthem is played,
she loses control.
Tears tearing a path down her face.
Nothing but a scratchy wool sleeve to help;
all the while,
not without a stiff upper lip.
And as soon as it started,
the entire thing is over,
and everyone files out of their seats.
While she and a friend quietly duck into a bathroom,
seeking refuge from the common calm.
She cries.
Then quickly collects herself and walks back alone.
She enters class,
late with bloodshot eyes; daring anyone to speak.
Smeared makeup like warpaint.
Catching the eyes of her classmates,
as well as those of her teacher,
who now understands.
Though it's a silent knowing,
of course;
because nobody enjoys talking about,
nor remembering,
the day of the assembly.
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 4:12 PM UTC
I'm burning with every soft whisper down my spine, my pulse is vibrato.
Like the soft and energetic hum of horsehair melting into song.
Writhing in dance against the twisted embrace of chromium on the strings.
A clash of furious titans.
Making storms when they collide; the wind and the tide.
Wrestling for power 'til the waves crash one over another, gasping, growling.
Oxygen.
When my lips meet cotton crisp and sweet, and beg for freedom of another kind.
And there in quiet whimpers do we seek, together this enlightenment of lone and fallen ones.
Grazing sharp and silent little wounds, quieted by scar tissue.
Healing through our fingertips and moans, twisted as an ouroboran knot;
feeling mirrored heartbeats strike like savage drums.
When the guise of warpaint loses shape, cast aside for inner feral forms,
grinning cheshire, hidden thorny claws.
In the darkness of another night, heavy with the weight of misty breaths, there from underneath do they then come,
the master and his hound, the lord and fallen one.
Aug 7, 2014
Aug 7, 2014 at 2:14 AM UTC
I am two:thirty heat lightning.
Inconquerable flashes of my elemental fury
leap from grumbling cloud to dewy earth,
dancing naked under a smoky moon. I am a burning
offering to the sodium lamp sentinels looming golden
over black tar; there is tobacco sown
into my every pore. I am the underestimated
weight of fog rolling off the meadow's swollen calf
river, the heavy lowing of labor pains, the thick
croak of the year's last bullfrog. I am the first
crunch of dying light, the gray tinge of wood smoke
on chlorophyll burned red. The sting of my icy breath
creeps into sleeping eyelids, through every crack
in waterlogged armor. My frosty four o'clock
is no place for strangers. The frozen silence
does not know my strength. I will bend the world
with feet of glass. In time, the weight will break
my own limbs, expose their green, soft meat.
I am the green shoots of daffodils sharp,
triumphantly cleaving the rested dirt. There is yellow
warpaint across my forehead, a crown of blistering elegance
glazed by wings of stubborn three:thirty ice. I am resilient
and eternal—perennial—blooming to a cold, white moon.
May 12, 2016
May 12, 2016 at 12:13 PM UTC
[it all matters]
**i seek a chain
made of silver
with three black orbs
and a bird facing the sky**
to wrap around my chest
fall between my *******
clasp around my waist
and the back of my neck
to remind me
of my shape
all day
as i move
i am conscious
of a bead here
a tug there
and i am reminded
that i am a
woman
and
i
feel
power
i stand tall
i feel sure
i use my grace
and i wield my weapons
have you not seen
the plumage of
the birds of the sky?
colors
textures
and sounds
m e s m e r i z e
attract
or distract
hide
or reveal
have you not seen
the cuttlefish?
the intelligent
mollusk
and
master of disguise
hiding in the sea?
beauty
and mystery
abound
*oh
that
i knew
the ways of
the cuttlefish
what wonders
i would create*
female /human/
a fairly blank
canvas
unadorned in
color
but for eyes
hair and
skin
no spectacular showing
of plumage
no mysterious
change in texture
or majestic wing
some humans
are aware
of this
(seemingly)
overlooked
pomp and
circumstance
i want more bird
i want more cuttlefish
so i seek a chain
made of silver
*to remind me
of my shape*
i seek paint of
many colors
to adorn my
feet and hands
*i change the color of
my hair with
the wind*
i line my eyes in black
i paint my lips
**if i need warpaint
i shall have it**
if i desire to blend in
then i shall
where can i shine?
where can i glow?
where can i
pattern
myself
like a leopard?
now
i am powerful
because
i am me
now i fit better into
nature because
i am of nature
i am as human as i can get
/i am all animals and all things/
roaring and silent
swift and slow
beautiful and plain
because i am human
i can choose it
because i am human
i create it
because i am human
i am claiming it
and you are my witness
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 12:54 AM UTC
You plumed filthy fascinating mess
gave rave hillside hair reviews
hated the monkey at the zoo
cos your mum liked him better than you
medicine ball bladder & hammer smash face
tiger glitter warpaint
sleeping it off
had a dog outta 10
living the tent life
the stars were spread out
but you're all fall-back shut-eye
thinking of punching your kidneys
wishing for crowd voodoo
Mar 11, 2013
Mar 11, 2013 at 8:34 AM UTC
Engage
Ignite
the blood needs stirring
the legs have fallen dumb
stupor of monotony
has nestled into hips
wake these automatons
shake the dust from their harps
break beds and shred pillows
it’s possible that the very sight of feathers
might spark a memory of flight
these lifeless were not stillborn
these were once vivid
there is an epic in each of their wrinkles
each one of their tongues
once rang like bell towers
from hilltop carnal cathedrals
there are mountains they have stood on
that you have yet to reach
be careful not to judge a valley
without first considering
why it’s not called a plateau
these are atoms waiting to be split
waiting to rupture
to quake
to rip through the popular tapestry
waiting for their chance to be contagious
be contagious
these are already on death row
unaware of their slumber
ritual has rocked them gentle and slow
and habit is a cozy cradle
Engage
Ignite
spark passion in dried up timbers
gathered like kindling in foxholes
these have been lovers
for a forgotten number of years
these once meant ‘I do’
there is a sedative nostalgia
glazing their smiles
these are not now, but then
break hourglasses
and storm the new beach
raise flags in the motherland
bearing family crests
speak warpaint
sing fire
compose your battle cry
from their fragmented vitality
arouse in these
a memory of their first love
awaken the giants
that have fallen asleep
pull the plug
let them die or breathe
but let us see
who is and who isn’t
a sepulcher
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:08 PM UTC
comfort was a long road that came to a dead
end abruptly. happiness and companionship
left suddenly with the clutch of solace. he
was left standing there in the rain, all senses
disdained. a seeing man now build to ease,
seeing the fellowship of someone that ties
knots in your throat; turns your obscurities
to seize.
distraught
at this very moment the quest for clenches
to console surrounded him with the ignorance
his state of mind was unable to control.
seeking and searching began in the
bedsheets. he found loneliness and
regret; mistake after mistake, temporary impassion
chose what risks to take. drowning in seas of
duvets, suffocation on the stench of
frictioned flesh and smothered in the salinity
pasted on each others skin like the warpaint of
ephemeral happiness, he searched down an
unsearchable road and lost his direction in the
******* forever ringing his ears with regret. each kiss
down his neck, each bite to his lip, each face-blanketing
exhale, he repents with the ignorance of finding the
will to live and love between the legs of someone who
feels the same way. the crimson crevices carved in his back
drip with remorse and sullen; hoping for once to life the
bedsheets and find an unawakened bundle of coiffure
and serenity and not calamities of regret and ****** suicide
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 8:04 PM UTC
Let's run away,
in a beaten up, old clunker,
with nothing but a box of Cheez-its,
and a collection of albums from The Beatles.
Let's take every face we meet,
and paint them onto every street corner,
stealing sweet peaches ,and juicy oranges
from each vendor along the way.
Let's take the ash
others have put in our mouths,
and dip our fingers in the black,
streaking lines on our faces like warpaint.
Let's live
this crazy, beautiful life,
that you and I have spun
out of frowns and false eyelashes,
and have turned into something worthwhile,
Because we'll be the ones
they write about in novels on best seller's lists
We'll be the ones who create their own world,
because they were too good for the one already in place,
And you and I will be the ones
to look back on our lives, even
with blood-stained palms touching,
and laugh how none of them mattered
Dec 20, 2013
Dec 20, 2013 at 10:08 AM UTC
her auburn hair was messy,
And I figured it reflected who she was,
Bright but a mess,
And I was absolutely right.
she’s the type of girl that stays up all night,
Just to look at the moon and watch the sunrise
she believes there’s still more to learn,
more people to love.
and she never stops.
she never stops working, she never
Stops loving people,
Even when others deem them unworthy.
She spends her days saving lives,
Couldn’t bare to save her own.
And everyday she wakes up,
So full of love, but so scared to invest in anyone
She just wants her mind to stop racing.
Her clothes drape loosely on her body,
And her eyes don’t shed a tear anymore
she puts on her warpaint.
Apr 3, 2018
Apr 3, 2018 at 1:04 AM UTC
Don't you look at me.
Don't hold the door for me.
I see your eyes
Slick
With awe.
Some girls live for a
Slack-jawed look
Like that.
Don't you show me kindness
Because the swells of my *******
Are defined beneath silk.
Don't you linger
Because of my slim hips
And white shoulders.
Don't
*******
Look at me.
Don't show me the deference of the beautiful
That you wouldn't if I wore
My grey sweatshirt and sneakers
Instead.
This is my armor, suitors.
This is my warpaint.
You may not know that I want to cry.
But don't you reward me for my lie:
Don't you look at me.
Your gazes
HURT
Today.
Let me be the wall
Or that unoffending plant beside the window.
Don't you look at me,
You don't have the right
And I don't have the strength
Today.
Your interest disgusts me,
And that makes me sad.
So don't.
Don't you
Dare
Look at me.
You are not her.
Sep 14, 2013
Sep 14, 2013 at 1:46 AM UTC
*It
feels good
to not levitate
beneath your "broad,
wise"
wings. Where the weight
of the world--
or who won the
argument--
while missing parents
canoodled their partners
or pole dancing classes
swept them from their
normal floors;
and kids
fought with sticks
and warpaint
for fun;
until it was war
and the kids
battled kitchen
knives
on the
floor
and the weight
of the blame
fell to the
little girl
who stood watching
from a safe distance
while her
two best friends
fought over tator tots.
{whose side would she
take?}*
*Those tator tots sadly evolved
into **** packs
and late night robberies
& unfortunately the
kids on the block
become thieves--
and the weight
of this economy
this system dancing
on the knapsacks
{as the kids ransack
and abandon for dead}
on the briefcases
{as the adult clones
corrupt til dead}*
*And it
feels good
to not hover
beneath the
view
of chemical dusted skies and factory worked
feathers.*
There is a world
in the sky
where none of this
has happened--
It's a place where humans
don't exist--
{where we cant crush the earth
with our weighted machines}
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 2:54 AM UTC
Paint my porcelain skin
To look like steel.
This is my armor,
Fragile beneath
It’s metallic sheen.
Paint my face
With my blood
Like warpaint
In the form of adrenaline
coursing through my veins.
Forge my sword
With the splintered pieces
Of my dignity,
For my wit is sharp
And my pride is strong.
Heed my battle cry
The song of words once trapped in my throat.
I am a siren, a Spartan, a warrior for the silenced.
The blood
Running through my veins
Is toxic.
So bite me.
Jul 16, 2018
Jul 16, 2018 at 12:23 AM UTC
Please,
do me a favor:
stay out of my dreams.
i'll be beneath sheets, silent.
her love, even love for another
was a flood through my mind
at 2am.
you blend, spirit to spirit,
the ghost that i never catch.
the hope that lingers
like garlic breath.
swimming the lake,
it's slow-motion, it aches.
it's filled with possession,
money-drug manuscript
and reaching out without a grip.
she wears clothing, i wear internal
organs on my sleeve.
she wears lipstick, i wear warpaint.
i melt plastic for fun.
i melt into her, miles at a time.
she fancied displaying
naughty pictures of herself; hell,
i fancied looking at them.
angel wings, or what was imperfect
becoming so very perfect.
now she taunts me without
knowing it.
i wish for a long moment ago,
i wish i had closed my mouth
and made myself stay still.
i wish 50 weeks hadn't gone by.
i wish i had closed my eyes and
woken up in bed after a bad dream.
it was her halloween photograph,
that was the moment i sat in the
dark diningroom, staring, and
feeling my arteries bursting
through my sternum.
many nightmares later i am no longer
alone, and a noose in name is my
favorite false memory:
i electrocuted myself, three times
as a child.
once, using metal scissors,
i severed the cord of a radio
plugged into the wall. hurt like hell,
my arm went numb.
in the wrong place. i was released,
and ran like a fool back into
the trap.
i wanted to be trapped by
you. and NOW i have to force
myself to close my mouth
and stay still.
every day i stay away from you
is another ********* costume.
Dec 22, 2011
Dec 22, 2011 at 11:38 PM UTC
What stands after nothing,
what grows in the night?
What answers the calling,
what soothes untreated sight?
Tonight, without knowing,
know we sustained the right,
here now, without crumbling,
fight the dust in the mite.
We'll delight in the other,
never smother the fight...
but when hopeless
feels dopeless,
always answer the cry.
Oct 6, 2014
Oct 6, 2014 at 4:24 PM UTC
You were as golden yellow as the Carolina Jessamine.
You were as petite as the Long- Spurred Violet.
You were as graceful as the Wisteria and as complex as the Passionflower.
You stood as tall as the Sunflowers and as enchanting as the Fall Aster.
You were as intoxicating as the Cardinal flower; haunting everyone and slowly making them fall in love with you.
Your eyes are brighter then those Baby Blue eyes you love so much.
You were as happy as the California Poppy's.
You and your Wildflower Warpaint.
Aug 21, 2017
Aug 21, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
In New Mexico,
My toes never tasted the red mud they
Craved. Four souls in a ton of tin
chased storms
Dreaming of warpaint but
I only breathed dust.
I ran at everything with twitching fingers
and choked on dry lightning
that tasted like highway tar and ***** *****
futilities
But I licked my lips and asked for more.
Jan 27, 2011
Jan 27, 2011 at 7:43 PM UTC
God gave leopards spots
Zebras and tigers stripes
Hyenas fur and fangs
Lions a bright and gilded mane
But humans have but their skin
Pale or copper, thick or thin
Veins and white blood cells
Bare feet, bare of claws
How then, are we expected
To show the dangers we possess
If not gifted with fangs or fur?
If only given soft skin?
My ancestors in the Americas
Painted their skin with bright colors
Palms red with berries and
Faces covered with the designs of their gods
I am but a teenage girl
A goddess in no sense, a weakness
My force upon the world no greater
Than the force of a worm in dirt
I have no thousand year old dyes
No golden mane of hair but
Bright berserker eyes
and a force of will like gravity
I have glittering lipstick
My own brand of warpaint
Against all things that make me
Feel small, ugly, and worthless
Do you see this? My warpaint screams
I am not your victim
I am not your weak, disgusted little girl
I am a warrior
You can not have this
This body is mine
This body is strong
This body is me
And instead of fading
My warpaint seeps into my skin
Becoming what I am
A warrior, at war
Mar 14, 2014
Mar 14, 2014 at 8:52 AM UTC