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Nat Lipstadt Aug 2013
What poem will you wear, when first we meet?

How will I recognition-you,
when you transverse my land?
Unknown our faces, our voices,
Only silent words electronic exchanged

Will lantern, it be: one, if by land, two, if by sea?
Will your ID badge, passport stamped and state,
Your chest bear a witness-sign?

The Arrivals Board flashes:
                    une poétesse est arrivé
                    eine Dichterin ist angekomme
                    a poetess has arrived
                    una poetisa ha llegado

Will there be a haiku in your hair,
A limerick exposed by raucous grin,
Or just ten words
allotted for your entire visit?

Desperate to locate
Urgent to sensate
Matters I take
Into two cupped hands,
On the shoeshine stand
Climb and recite-shout

Know me by my words,
Know me by the lilt lyrical
Of my American accented,
Canadian Tongue of my mother

Know me by my words,
Carved by time on my forehead,
Poetry is the blood of this fool's soul,
Hear me, find me, look upon me slamming

Poems are the thorns in my palms,
See me crucified, bleeding stanzas
Upon my shoeshine stand cross
Recitation resuscitation welcoming:

Benedicting Gloria, Gloria, Gloria

But if this should fail your attention to secure,
Or the TSA unappreciate my second coming,
Look for the crowd gathered round,
A man of moderate height, in a tall hat,
Beard scraggly, looking sorrowful
Reciting the Gettysburg Address

Either way,
Should be easy peasy to find me,
Grab your bag, off to short-term parking

This is how an Americana poet meets n' greets
Arriving poetess from a foreign land

Is there any other way?
Alas, five years on and I know in my heart
that you are not coming...
Aug 2013
Osiria Melody Mar 13
Scrolls through your feed,
Urge to LIKE and COMMENT on
each of your posts
[Refrains from doing so]
Am I a creep for stalking your
profile back to day 1?

We don't connect in real life,
unlike instantly on social media
FOLLOWING each other's posts
throughout the year
Falling in love behind a
screen of an idealized world

I've never heard your voice
I've never held your hand
I've never spent time IRL
with you
I hope that you look the same
like your profile picture, though

Should we meet IRL? I dunno, LOL.
ღ  ღ  ღ

i can't remember

the sound of your voice

or the way that i'd feel

when you'd enter a room

but once in a while

i smell that perfume

you used to wear

and maybe

still do

ღ  ღ  ღ

it's usually when i'm in a crowd

and i scan all the faces

searching for yours

before i can stop myself

ღ  ღ  ღ

but i don't see you

and i know you're not there

but i close my eyes

just for a second

and half-pretend you are

and i just embrace, and i wear,

the scent of that perfume

ღ  ღ  ღ

and for a moment or two

i truly & fully understand

the meaning of  the word nostalgia

ღ  ღ  ღ
for my late mother, and how i feel on the rare occassion when I smell even the slightest whiff of L'Air du Temps perfume
Scarlett Aug 2018
my clumsy limbs
                           held together with wet cement
              taught rubber bands
                         struggle to bind my flesh

I am but a mess of unimportant matter
another aimless being to fill the space    
unique for my twisted thoughts  
hysterically pleading with a calm face                    

speaking warped words i do not mean
         lips sealed like the lid on my boiling ***
                      dumping oppressed feeling into its contents
                                     bubbling over sweetly burning my raw skin hot

blistered I hide behind my cotton disguise
my misshapen body covered in a gruesome sweat                    
     sickening wounds throb for the sight of others                          
witness my plague of dry sobs and cigarettes                        

and so i shriek silently like my sister and father
hold my tongue saturated with sour emotion
my poorly constructed moth-eaten being
self sabotages in a desperate motion
the oppression of a disheveled being in hopes of better presentation of self for others
Evelyn Genao Mar 2018
A mask is what we wear.
It hides our cheeks and shades our eyes.
On the mask is a smile.
Forced. Real. Unsure. Scared. Alone. Broken.
It’s always different. For every person.

With our heart’s torn and bleeding, we smile.
Hiding the tears.
We numb and we hide and we pretend.
Pretending that everything will be okay.
That we’ll be okay.
But we are getting sick and tired of always being someone we are not.
Aren’t we? Or is even that us pretending?

We just want to hide our fear.
Fear of never being good enough.
Fear that no one will ever love us.
Fear that we won’t love ourselves.

It’s amazing, isn’t it?
What we can fake with a smile.
That’s all it takes. A beautiful [fake] smile.
It hides our injured soul so deep.
That no one ever knows how broken we really are.

Are you okay?”
They would ask, sounding like they actually care.

I’m fine. Just tired.”
Is what we say with that fake twinkle we have gotten so used to wearing.

We say it over and over, repeatedly tucking away our heart.
We don’t want to have it broken. Not again.
We act as if nothing is wrong.
That we are not breaking.
That we are fine.

They are such fools.
Believing us so easily.
Can’t they see our pain? Our tears.
Are they even looking?
Why can’t they tell that we’re wearing a mask?
Is the smile that we wear too good?

We are good at it. Hiding.
It’s what we do. Hidden behind our mask.
It comes so naturally for us.
But sooner or later it becomes an addiction.
Our need to lie becomes too great.

No one ever thinks we’ll fall apart. That we’ll break.
But we do. So much.
Sometimes that’s good, but not always.
There are times where we wish we could just break down.
On someone’s awaiting shoulder.
As they comfort our pain.
But for now, our masks will remain on.
I hope you love and be sure to comment what you think.Also look at my other poems if you loved this one.
My indifferent shelf of admonition
Sets a precedent for a series of irrational
Particularly, drops of consumable poison

This poison, you see, induces tranquility
But instills aggressiveness into your
My words are incoherent and
blurred like my deteriorating mind

My indifferent shelf of admonition
Sets a precedent for a series of
broken shards in the glass of life,
Particularly, drops of poison that
kills us to make us feel alive

One bottle of blithe at a time

Keep those bottles up on those shelves.
B L Jul 2018
Doing a dance,
to wear a mask,
To play a game that you can’t stomach . . .
Just so that the truth doesn’t have to face you,
The way you recoil from reflections of yourself.

You’d forsake your happiness, your health —
                                                  You would burn it all.

To do a dance,
To wear a mask
To play a game you’ll always lose.
                                                  To look in a mirror . . .
             To tell an image, that it’s anything but you.

And it is in that moment, that you'll find
                                you tell the unfamiliar truth
As you bleed and feed your own obliterated youth . . .

To feel, and then
                          to lose —
Just like the loss you always knew

                          You would find in disappointment.
Like an unholy anointment
                          of your least desirable possessions
That retire from the heavens
                          Back to you.

To betray, and to amuse
The ides of irony rejoice!
               For they’ve found their lamb... or
their ever-dying muse.
                 Forsaking life itself, you clamor
To see others just like you.

And maybe, one day, one will choose
           the path that you can’t leave,
As it reciprocates to thee —
            Two partners in misery, fated to excuse
the waste of each other...
            until they find there’s nothing left.

To feel the flame within its breath consumed.

Wearing a mask,
To live a lie,
                And die a death,
                Whose dance you six-times misstep

                              And on the seventh, betrays you.

Bad Luck: In a Wakeful Contradiction :
Nekron Nov 2018
How alone I feel without you
How quickly Id concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wear me
Like a shoal
Crush my trachea  
With your feet
Oh the people you’ll meet

How alone I feel without you
How quickly I’d concede
To touch
Warmth willing
What wishing
Wring me
I’m your song bird
Dead in defeat
Oh the people you’ll meet
U wear mascara over eyelid
Only prove your self
Black is on top little lash
Evil  is  away
Jordan Rowan Jun 2016
She came down from a mountain
Higher than the valley she's been in
She broke down like an engine
On a highway towards forever once again

She says "I don't know where my life is going", but
Baby, nobody knows
Just take a breath and do what you've been doing
True angels wear everyday clothes

She lives inside the mind of a mercenary
Staring down the barrel of a gun
She's tired of the weight they ask her to carry
And her back has been broken for so long

There's choirs that will sing of her memory
Like a fallen queen with silver in her hair
As the flowers bloom and God starts descending
To touch her hand and take her anywhere

She says "I don't know where my life is going, but
Baby, nobody knows
Just take a breath and do what you've been doing
True angels wear everyday clothes
Diana Nov 2018
Is more ****
Than a Confident Woman
That knows her worth
And what she rightfully deserves
Not because of anything superficial
But because of everything inside her
That's original
It's not something literal; it's more figurative. A woman can wear her confidence in knowing what she's worth and what she honestly deserves with high standards and nothing else because she herself is precious.
Peter Garrett Jun 10
Boys will always be boys
So you’re allowed to be a creep
Treat women as your toys
Don’t let anyone see you weep

Man up, pick some fights
There’s nothing as get a kid hit
Bully away someone’s light
Do that and I promise you’ll fit

Just be cool, society got your back
As long as you paint your soul in black
And never forget to wear your mask
Inspired by my own sick childhood and the doccumentary "The Mask you Live in", which a very dear friend recommended.
Klaus Dec 2018
Now I know,
This is the first time we've
But, I wanna be you.
I wanna wear your skin as a
In your ambiance, I will
And when they speak my name, i'll say who?

I wanna wear your clothes as
I want to live your life.
I want your receding
I want your growing
I want to love your wife.

9-5, I'd work your
I'd love your bratty son.
In the suburbs, a faceless
I wouldn't  be an upturned
And when I'd sit in your car or your study, I wouldn't think of a noose nor a gun.
For my father.
September Roses May 2018
We are tied together by our stories, our history
Tales woven through our ancestry, when our parents talk of their younger days,
When their life was ahead of them,
the future was anything and everything,
they speak of their old friends with ache in their soul,
Of times when their hearts were filled with fire and passion,
running through fields growing memories  planted by the world around them
When they could sprint the wind in their hair,
adventure ahead,
hope in their heart.
They speak of the days behind with woe
Because essentially just their ideas of the future as a young mind, were more enticing than reality.
As dreams failed and hope faded
As their minds wear
and their treasured stories that made them who they are fog over
As threads begin to wear
As tales they once yelled to the world with pride fray at the ends
Your whole world slipping away as the thread unwinds
But they get the joy of passing down the tapestry to their pride and joy,
to the life they made,
Every moment we live with ease of no appreciation for every experience every laugh
Moments we take for granted
Moments we will pine for when they run out
Moments the elderly urge us with fire to cherish
Moments we'll wish we listened about
There is a vast tapestry of memories behind you and infinite thread panning out in front of you, connecting to other tapestries,
visiting at friends,
at enemies,
joining with soul-mates future.
Some cut away,
some ripped from the tapestries too soon before they could weave their own.
A loose thread cannot be fixed once more are made,
and the patterns will never be what you want them to be, savour each stitch
Take time on every thread
You don't want to be sitting there 50 years old thinking about the life you wasted
About the memories faded,
About how every slipping memory's never like the moment you made it.
Don't be sitting 90 filled with regret
Filled with hatred for every opportunity you left
Screaming into the void about how much you hate what your life become.
because they say time flys when your having fun truth is time only flies when you're young.
killian Oct 2018
If you were
To wear my skin
You’d find pebbles
In the bottom of my feet,
Like limbs that fall asleep
From sedentary sport.
It’s crumbled potential energy
That gravity pulls down,
Like gemstones
That can never shine.
They cut sharp
Under my feet and
Kept me on my toes
Until I stumbled onto a bed.
You could feel the plastic bags
Under my eyes, torn from the street,
Ripping from utter stress.
You could feel the spray paint can
Stiff and cold and pink
And a finger shaking, pressing down,
Waiting to paint my eyes and nose.
If you wore my skin,
You would feel that my tears
Were melting plastic, lava,
But it feels oh so good
To have color on my eyes
and a reason to be cared.
You’re going to have to seep out
While everything else crawls in.
Lorelaj Dec 2018
We all take depression differently.
Some people use it as a joke,
others take it as an advantage
and some others have it as a toxic friend that always follows them around.

And we all show it differently.
Like make up, some go ful coverage, with tone of powder and shadow, to hide their imperfection,
but some wear it natural, to deal with their imperfection.

We all dress it differently.
There are people who dress it black and people who dress it colorful
There are people who dress it with sweaters and hats and scarves and people who only put a thin towel on it.

But actually it doesn’t matter how we wear depression because we will never be able to hide it from the most important ones- ourselves.
Deb Jones Dec 2018
I have had multiple partners
All had flaws
None were insurmountable
And that was alright

I wore many masks
As I stepped into their worlds
I was what they needed me to be
And that was alright

I thought I would find “the one”
I could have stayed and loved
Any one of them
And that was alright

I never bared my soul to a man
First because they wouldn’t understand me
Second because I didn’t want them to know me that deeply
And that was alright

Honestly, I felt more like myself
When I was wearing a mask
For them
And after all these years
It’s still alright

I have made memories that will make men still smile decades from now. That is what my heart wants. Those smiles.

In this world perfection doesn’t exist.
We can love a person for the rest of our lives.
Multiple people at once even.
I never had a “Bad Breakup”
I love them all still.

Don’t wait for perfection. You would be bored. You agree on everything? Check
You make love with spontaneity? Check
You are a united front to your kids? Check
You are each other’s best friend? Check

And if denying any one of those things makes you question your entire being?

Stop doing that! Just stop doing that to yourself!
You are just fine.

Think if you will like this person in your living room 25-45 years from now.
Close your eyes and imagine it.

Take this scenario, and forgive me for using it too.

As a woman
You are served a light breakfast in bed
Fruit, toast points already buttered, coffee or tea made just the way you like.
Along with a small vase with a single flower. All laid out on the same tray.
Every morning for the rest of your life.
The exact same thing
You are delighted at the gesture. It’s love personified. didn’t ask for it, don’t want it every morning, feel mentally pressured to sound thankful and gracious after a while.

And the man that is bringing this token of love? It becomes his “thing”
After a while it becomes a duty to him. A resentment.

Again please don’t think we, as women, don’t appreciate the gesture. We do.

But loving, spontaneous gestures are better. So much better.

Hand me a rock.
That you think is pretty.
A small piece of driftwood you think I would like the shape of.
Remember if I like horseradish in a ****** Mary.
Stock my favorite drink.
Keep bottled water cold for me
These things have great meaning to me.

Reality is you will like your personal space. Especially when the relationship has stabilized.
That is when you find the best mate for you

But you have to go meet and be with other soulmates during your journey. And part as loving friends.
Soulmates can be same ***.
For women and men

My motto is and forever will be
“Cause the least harm”

And that is alright.

The most important lesson I learned was that the masks we wear for others is just a side of us. The real us
gcj Feb 28
you look at me by the first thing you see;
what I wear
label my soul to a degree;
that is unfair
i spin around so you can inspect my back
you measure my morality by the inches above my knee
as if what is high shows what I lack
please don’t let that be how you define me
try to understand another perspective
being an outcast is not my objective

women face unrelenting brands
tags devastating their poise
centered around biased demands
instead lets cure our boys
of what society has said is okay
freedom to express is what i want to inveigh
this is about my school's dress code, and how when you arrive at homecoming you have to do a full turn so they can see the back and they measure the length of your dress with a 3X5 card and its incredibly demeaning!!!!
Antino Art Apr 2018
We wear this city on our feet
Planting our roots with each step
Our shadows

cast shapes of ancient oak trees stretching out over Nash Square at daybreak
We grow here

with the spirit of buildings past,
present and rising like a staircase to heaven in the distance,
the plumes of white smoke from their rooftops as burnt offerings for incense,
spires for steeples,
the bundled masses of people moving beneath as the calloused soles
of our feet pounding the pavement,
Our congregation

seated in reverant silence on the R-Line hissing to a stop
Their hushed prayers filing out from within to bring the reclaimed sidewalks of Fayetville Street back to life to join this pilgramage
They march

downtown toward Capitol
holding signs for disarmament
They bar-hop through Glenwood toasting to deliverance
They sprint toward their cars on work week mornings in a blur of faces that become us,
Rush at all hours through our veins
Cross our hearts and keep us breathing
On the shoulders of this giant collective, we hold our heads high

to see that this is home now.
We cross into the unfamiliar
at the walk signal's cue,
breaking new ground, gazes meeting one another
as their counter-culture
coffee kicks in
to add this defiant bounce to each step
this rhythm to hop over puddles as they appear

We don't mind the way rain lands here
and its baptismal effect
We like how its capable of reinventing itself mid-fall into weightless snowflakes, then taking flight
We walk without umbrellas to see it

wearing the greyest pieces of their winter sky the way it caps the peaks of Mount PNC, BB&T and Wells Fargo like hoodies over our heads
We assume monk-like appearances
in robes color-coded by season- from blue collar sweaters to cold hard sweat
We'll wear their city until we're worn out and wet, mumbling last-mimute prayers for our salvation under our breath
We'll wear their dreams

at night, the moment the streetlights flicker on beneath wired telephone poles carrying conversations about each one as far south as Florida, fears unspoken, made visible
on iron park benches too cold to sit on at this hour
We'll keep walking

and wear this city like backpacks over our shoulders

under the shadow of their heavens,
the skyline
a glowing testament
of every step taken
toward someplace higher.
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
He sat by a furnace of seven-fold heat,
As He watched by the precious ore.
And closer He bent with a searching gaze,
As He heated it more and more.

He knew He had ore that could stand the test
And He wanted the finest gold,
To mold as a crown, for the king to wear,
Set with gems of price untold.

So He laid our gold in the burning fire,
Tho’ we fain would say Him "nay."
And watched the dross that we had not seen
As it melted and passed away.

And the gold grew brighter and yet more bright,
But our eyes were dim with tears,
We saw but the fire, not the Master’s hand,
And questioned with anxious fears.

Yet our gold shone out with a richer glow
As it mirrored a form above,
That bent o’er the fire, though unseen by us
With a look of ineffable love.

Can we think it pleases His loving heart
To cause us a moment's pain?
Ah, no! But He sees through the present cross
The bliss of eternal gain.

So He waited there with a watchful eye,
With a love that is strong and sure.
And His gold did not suffer a bit more heat
Than was needed to make it pure.

~ A.F. Ingler
Sonia Thomas May 1
There are oceans in my body,
In your eyes,
And between us.

I have walked on water before and drowned.
My holy arms and legs said names and wrapped men as presents that they didn't deserve to be.

I am prone to wishful thinking
And my rapidly closing eyes
Are already building sandcastles.

Tear them down.
Tear them down.
Like you wore and tore me down.

Set me on fire and end me.
Nothing and too much are two extremes I have lived in.
Now bridge them and let me die.
Ye got to Fancy this Hearty Stout, Aye,
Soot-soaked with tub-flavoured Laurels of Gold
Now bloke-haste Juggers tick your nerves on-high
And make ye shout the Trumpet-Football-Fold
Yet so, our Celtic Spirit comes to call
For you to Jig their Post-Victorious Dance
Or, if upset, prefer to keep knees on hold
And hope such Font will get you that Romance
Still, never deny those After-Glugs won't count
In palling the Bet for Arsenal's Wear
Sudden Death Match will cause the Team to Mount
And show those Charbarrels a Reason to Tear.
Raise a Swig, to where there Brave Captains be
I take me Share, and drink the Sailor in me.
Knit Personality Aug 2016
I like to wear a body suit
That’s made of human skin.
The gruesome onesie, head to foot,
Fits well: I step right in.

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