"whitening" poems
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
Write, for example, 'The night is starry
and the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.'
The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.
I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.
How could one not have loved her great still eyes.
Tonight I can write the saddest lines.
To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.
And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.
What does it matter that my love could not keep her.
The night is starry and she is not with me.
This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.
My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.
My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.
The same night whitening the same trees.
We, of that time, are no longer the same.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but how I loved her.
My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.
Another's. She will be another's. As she was before my kisses.
Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her.
Love is so short, forgetting is so long.
Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms
my soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.
Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer
and these the last verses that I write for her.
translated by W.S. Merwin
163.9k
my face-wash is a whitening cream
but what if i don't want to be white?
what if i just want my skin to be clean
since when did white and clean begin to come in the same package?
are white people the poster-children of cleanliness
because they've washed their hands
with the blood of my ancestors?
*am i *****
because i have not?*
it bothers me when my grandmother tells me
that i am lucky
because i was born the fairer one of the two sisters
she says she fears for what i would have looked like
had my colored mother not fallen in love with a white man
mixing her ***** genes with his pure ones
to create a mix-bred child, who, in any case
was better than being born brown.
**it would have been a sin
for me to have colored skin**
i am still dealing with the remnants of my colonial past
because i am still afraid of telling my mother
that i am in love with a colored man
she will accept him because he is loving and kind
but in the back of her mind
there will be a little voice that whispers
wouldn't it have been better if he was white instead?
and i've heard a lot of people tell me
*"thank God your hair is the right kind of curly
not the frizzy, afro-like hair
wild and free
thank God your hair is tame
thank God your hair falls in neat little curls
(you got your dad’s genes!)
thank God
we can hold it
and mold it
into what we like
thank God your hair is the right
kind of curly."*
you see my mom escaped by marrying a man with white skin
but with me the cycle begins again
because he's two shades darker
and my children will be too
the white genes of their grandfather
lost
among the dark genes of their father-
with chocolate eyes and hazel skin
i am still struggling to see at my father
as one of "us" and not one of "them"
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 2:50 AM UTC
KEEP a red heart of memories
Under the great gray rain sheds of the sky,
Under the open sun and the yellow gloaming embers.
Remember all paydays of lilacs and songbirds;
All starlights of cool memories on storm paths.
Out of this prairie rise the faces of dead men.
They speak to me. I can not tell you what they say.
Other faces rise on the prairie.
They are the unborn. The future.
Yesterday and to-morrow cross and mix on the skyline
The two are lost in a purple haze. One forgets. One waits.
In the yellow dust of sunsets, in the meadows of vermilion eight o'clock June nights ... the dead men and the unborn children speak to me ... I can not tell you what they say ... you listen and you know.
I don't care who you are, man:
I know a woman is looking for you
and her soul is a corn-tassel kissing a south-west wind.
(The farm-boy whose face is the color of brick-dust, is calling the cows; he will form the letter X with crossed streams of milk from the teats; he will beat a tattoo on the bottom of a tin pail with X's of milk.)
I don't care who you are, man:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are gray dust working toward star paths
And you see them from a garret window when you laugh
At your luck and murmur, "I don't care."
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know a man is looking for you
And his soul is a south-west wind kissing a corn-tassel.
(The kitchen girl on the farm is throwing oats to the chickens and the buff of their feathers says hello to the sunset's late maroon.)
I don't care who you are, woman:
I know sons and daughters looking for you
And they are next year's wheat or the year after hidden in the dark and loam.
My love is a yellow hammer spinning circles in Ohio, Indiana. My love is a redbird shooting flights in straight lines in Kentucky and Tennessee. My love is an early robin flaming an ember of copper on her shoulders in March and April. My love is a graybird living in the eaves of a Michigan house all winter. Why is my love always a crying thing of wings?
On the Indiana dunes, in the Mississippi marshes, I have asked: Is it only a fishbone on the beach?
Is it only a dog's jaw or a horse's skull whitening in the sun? Is the red heart of man only ashes? Is the flame of it all a white light switched off and the power house wires cut?
Why do the prairie roses answer every summer? Why do the changing repeating rains come back out of the salt sea wind-blown? Why do the stars keep their tracks? Why do the cradles of the sky rock new babies?
4.4k
You’re the reason for my favorite poem,
why I buy extra-strength whitening toothpaste,
the best part of Mondays.
You’re a showtune in the shower,
my pre-slumber what-if,
and also the best part of Tuesdays.
I worry that you notice
when my shoes smell bad
so I bought the expensive kind of Febreeze.
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 2:06 PM UTC
An insect.
That crawls upon my body, except I can't quickly swat it away
Without causing attention to myself
and everyone noticing that my
white ******* are pulled
all the way down
to my ankles.
My lips are dry so I bite them.
Knuckles whitening while I hold onto the grip-strap
And I hear his heavy breathing against my neck.
I look at the tunnels, quickly passing by.
'Maybe this will end fast too?'
Naive of me to think so.
Sliding into my flower
Like a toxic, little aphid.
Stuck on my sticky leaves
As petals are parted and
I pour out of the open doors in Shinjuku station,
And run out, wiping a tear on my sleeve.
I tug up my decency
While I run to the ticket booth.
Angry foreigner was yelling at the old man who sits within.
The clock above strikes eight.
I decide that it's not worth it.
I won't tell anyone.
It doesn't matter.
Could be worse.
It's okay.
I'm okay.
I wasn't okay.
Mar 2, 2019
Mar 2, 2019 at 1:20 AM UTC
when i was younger, this boy used to tease me about my skin color;
how much it resembles coal,
and how it makes me look like an Aeta,
and how they can't see me in the dark,
but even before that i was insecure.
because when people bothered to look at me,
they'd only see ebony
and to them it was synonymous with ugly and *****
but i don't blame them.
they're just caught in the current of colonialism
when we measured one’s status through the hue of their skin
and we followed.
we followed their discrimination of the ones whose skin didn't look like the exact duplicate of ivory and marshmallow.
we followed their system of supremacy of putting the lighter ones up in the stars to match whiteness with brightness.
we followed their standards of beauty which just happened to be the exact ******* opposite of our majority.
now our country is driven mad
by the idea of whitening your skin
until your heritage is nowhere to be seen;
it has been scrubbed off by papaya soap,
masked by glutathione
and devalued by insults.
but hey,
who cares about heritage if you look like that European actress?
who cares about culture when you could pass off as an American?
who cares about natural brown when synthetic white wears the crown?
Mar 5, 2017
Mar 5, 2017 at 9:06 AM UTC
I have come, alas, to the great circle of shadow,
to the short day and to the whitening hills,
when the colour is all lost from the grass,
though my desire will not lose its green,
so rooted is it in this hardest stone,
that speaks and feels as though it were a woman.
And likewise this heaven-born woman
stays frozen, like the snow in shadow,
and is unmoved, or moved like a stone,
by the sweet season that warms all the hills,
and makes them alter from pure white to green,
so as to clothe them with the flowers and grass.
When her head wears a crown of grass
she draws the mind from any other woman,
because she blends her gold hair with the green
so well that Amor lingers in their shadow,
he who fastens me in these low hills,
more certainly than lime fastens stone.
Her beauty has more virtue than rare stone.
The wound she gives cannot be healed with grass,
since I have travelled, through the plains and hills,
to find my release from such a woman,
yet from her light had never a shadow
thrown on me, by hill, wall, or leaves’ green.
I have seen her walk all dressed in green,
so formed she would have sparked love in a stone,
that love I bear for her very shadow,
so that I wished her, in those fields of grass,
as much in love as ever yet was woman,
closed around by all the highest hills.
The rivers will flow upwards to the hills
before this wood, that is so soft and green,
takes fire, as might ever lovely woman,
for me, who would choose to sleep on stone,
all my life, and go eating grass,
only to gaze at where her clothes cast shadow.
Whenever the hills cast blackest shadow,
with her sweet green, the lovely woman
hides it, as a man hides stone in grass.
3.1k
The other day my sister lamented that she did not look like one of those white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties on television.
This struck me for a number of reasons mainly for the fact that we are Indian girls who are neither white, blonde nor blue-eyed and it is physically impossible for us to be like that because it's coded into our genes.
Why then did my sister want to be so much like these beauties that she could never look like.
Why then did my sister want to change herself so much, change they very coding in her genes, change the very fabric of her body?
I was not able to respond to her at the time but this is my response to her.
Society's standards of beauty were created by entrepreneurs looking to make a quick buck.
They market such celebrities as beautiful and, through subliminal messages tell you that if you do not look like them, you are ugly and not worthy.
And it is so easy for them to do this because of the Westernisation of cultures all over the world.
Go to any supermarket and the first things yo will see under the beauty section are bleaching and whitening creams.
It is true that these white, blonde, blue-eyed beauties are stunning, gorgeous.
But why should their beauty mean that you aren't beautiful?
You are the culmination of years of evolution,
the stars have been planning your arrival.
Look at yourself in the mirror,
Stare into the dark brown irises of your eyes and understand that they are like pools of chocolate, understand that they are the colour of the bark of the tress understand that they are beautiful.
Caress your brown hair, run your fingers through it, you are beautiful.
Look at your caramel-coloured skin, don't you just love the colour? It's deep and sweet and beautiful.
Your body, the vessel of your soul in beautiful and every step you take is magical and your voice sounds like a bow playing perfectly on a violin and your laugh ringing out sounds like wind chimes in a light breeze.
Don't you understand?
You are a ******* masterpiece.
Don't treat yourself any less.
Oct 6, 2015
Oct 6, 2015 at 10:09 PM UTC
Calming sounds of water droplets,
pounding on the floors.
Tiny water droplets running over people,
running over mountains.
Blizzards of powder
whitening the peaks of glorious mountains,
and slowly,
covering the tracks of this violent world.
The tides softening the cliffs up above
evenning the jagged edges.
The jagged edges of humanity
cannot be softened or overcome
unless we realize that united,
like water droplets flowing on the floor,
we can overcome whatever comes,
like the blizzards at the top of the world.
May 12, 2010
May 12, 2010 at 9:11 PM UTC
SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy fire,
**** Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring !
Whose unshorn locks with leaves
And swelling buds are crowned ;
From the green islands of eternal youth,
(Crown'd with fresh blooms, and ever springing shade,)
Turn, hither turn thy step,
O thou, whose powerful voice
More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed,
Or Lydian flute, can sooth the madding winds,
And thro' the stormy deep
Breathe thy own tender calm.
Thee, best belov'd ! the ****** train await
With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove
Thy blooming wilds among,
And vales and dewy lawns,
With untir'd feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets
To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow
Of him, the favour'd youth
That prompts their whisper'd sigh.
Unlock thy copious stores ; those tender showers
That drop their sweetness on the infant buds,
And silent dews that swell
The milky ear's green stem.
And feed the slowering osier's early shoots ;
And call those winds which thro' the whispering boughs
With warm and pleasant breath
Salute the blowing flowers.
Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn,
And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ;
And watch with patient eye
Thy fair unfolding charms.
O nymph approach ! while yet the temperate sun
With bashful forehead, thro' the cool moist air
Throws his young maiden beams,
And with chaste kisses woes
The earth's fair ***** ; while the streaming veil
Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade
Protect thy modest blooms
From his severer blaze.
Sweet is thy reign, but short ; The red dog-star
Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe
Thy greens, thy flow'rets all,
Remorseless shall destroy.
Reluctant shall I bid thee then farewel ;
For O, not all the Autumn's lap contains,
Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits,
Can aught for thee atone
Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights
Than all their largest wealth, and thro' the heart
Each joy and new-born hope
With softest influence breathes.
2.2k
There inside the chamber sits,
Awaiting patiently;
Gathering discourse and their wits,
To match with Chimpanzee.
Primate statues loom the loft,
‘Mongst whitening Baboons;
Fidget in their seats too soft,
Indifferent of this room.
For ghosts of former nobles peek,
In shame, as they observe;
The power of the abject weak,
Enable them to serve.
Parrots cackling ‘mongst themselves,
As peacocks flaunt their fan;
Gorilla preens, while tries to quell,
With gavel in his hand.
Chimp arises, intently poised,
To embellish his appointment;
Words rehearsed to fill the void,
Deliberate and pointed.
For he, and only he, shall reign,
While rendering his will
Upon the reaches, lakes and plains;
‘Pon feather, fur and gill.
Yet irony betrays this horde,
Of chosen beasts that thrive,
Who seek to witness own accord,
On who should live or die.
Baboons and the Chimpanzee,
May climb to endless heights,
Gather fruit from tops of trees,
And relish in their might;
But those who scrounge upon the ground,
Or forage in the sea,
Cannot relate to this debate,
Nor self-idolatry.
So this becomes an exercise,
In futile words exchanged;
In bartering the truth for lies,
Leaves jungle quite estranged.
Such is then, the sacrifice,
That satisfies this troop:
Lions shall compete with mice,
For homeland and for food.
This seems just, this seems right,
So pleased to then arrive,
To alter former terms of plight,
Ensure the like survive.
Commune must have order,
Compliance is then deemed;
Life must have its borders,
Confining self-esteem.
Parrots flee to bring the news,
Of brighter days ahead;
While creatures of the air and blue,
Fear the distance spread.
Content to reconvene again,
As this is their employ;
Govern those outside the pen,
Such honor they enjoy.
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 6:08 AM UTC
The season is a lullaby
of frosted clocks and prickling ire
impatience with the steadfast solemnity
of the wintertide uniform
Locked in crystal formation, the sunshine sleeps
where the mountains beckon
the very peaks
and the hours of the passing days diminish
into austere darkness,
Yet my heart thrills with each crystal shimmer
and beats a pulse that cannot be met
by any life
contained in snow
There is a whisper to my very soul
from the whitening glow
as it shatters the bones of cold
Such Redemption in the icy sound
sets my mind heaven bound
Oct 18, 2012
Oct 18, 2012 at 6:03 PM UTC
Egotist, the master of the ego mist
or some ego antagonist
he is so much there
in the center of a web
of regurgitated fears
recycling pointless
the old cycles of
night after day
life after chaos
but no death
after ego inflation
just a rusty song
of imprisoned moments
or undeciphered gnashing
all character is just the dust
you cannot grasp
grey ruminations
curses wiggling
in times devoid of innocence
the cruelty of a ****
refusing to wither
at the end of his cigarettes
a speck of self
is threading a stratagem
to severe the ties
for the ******* of distance
so that he can continue
uninterrupted
to mutilate his heart
no one can persuade the night
into whitening
like you clean your teeth
of curses
the rest is sadness
the dew would know it.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 6:51 PM UTC
Logical doesn’t have taste. It has circumstance. Only to be tasteful, is to be surrounded by a taste of what gradually makes a self importance greater to yourself. Proudly underestimating yourself at first. Giving closure to the surrounding areas. Taste has no boundaries here. A made-up friction. A made-up functionality. A dripping faucet without clarity. Dripping one social taste at any given time. Clarity giving rise to the surrounding areas with logical ingredients. Logical ingredients slapping taste buds without concern for logical praise. Logical praise that doubts it’s understanding of taste buds giving praise to ingredients without concern for how praise will affect it’s priorities. Priorities finishing the diversity of something logical with a taste. The taste buds feeling the diversities finalizing ingredients in their rightful places. Like shiny white plates on display for the crowd of praises effecting one’s own priorities. Teeth whitening the taste buds for greater effect. Praises finally giving the logical praise the taste it deserves. More surrounding areas include a broader crowd. A newer logical taste starts to emerge in the practice of ingredients giving logical praise to the logical priorities that govern it so. Praise from newer surroundings influencing more ingredients in the form of logical taste. More taste buds start feeling the diversities in the praise which salivates the practice of logical assessments. A reverse act giving rise to a simplified logical taste without boundaries.
Oct 27, 2019
Oct 27, 2019 at 9:55 PM UTC
Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.
But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen—
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest—
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.
’Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.
As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev’n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.
The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.
I go—but wheresoe’er I flee
There’s not an eye will weep for me;
There’s not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.
To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.
And who that dear lov’d one may be,
Is not for ****** eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.
I’ve tried another’s fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.
’Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o’er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.
1.6k
Wilting and whitening
abandoned in the sun.
I thought of dying but decided
wallowing would be more fun.
I thought to cut my palms
as if opening a letter
but then decided
cutting your throat would be better.
Mar 5, 2015
Mar 5, 2015 at 6:45 AM UTC
I awoke to a piano
lullaby ringing in my ears
and moon lyrics
whitening my lips,
goosebumps illuminate my pale skin.
The stars talk
to me: they blink
Morse-code. I drag
my knuckles along the blue
wall, force my skin away.
I want to see bright bone,
like fresh moon in the dark.
Aug 4, 2015
Aug 4, 2015 at 10:28 AM UTC
They will soon be down
To one, but he still will be
For a little while still will be stopping
The flakes in the air with a look,
Surrounding himself with the silence
Of whitening snarls. Let him eat
The last red meal of the condemned
To extinction, tearing the guts
From an elk. Yet that is not enough
For me. I would have him eat
The heart, and from it, have an idea
Stream into his gnarling head
That he no longer has a thing
To lose, and so can walk
Out into the open, in the full
Pale of the sub-Arctic sun
Where a single spruce tree is dying
Higher and higher. Let him climb it
With all his meanness and strength.
Lord, we have come to the end
Of this kind of vision of heaven,
As the sky breaks open
Its fans around him and shimmers
And into its northern gates he rises
Snarling complete in the joy of a weasel
With an elk’s horned heart in his stomach
Looking straight into the eternal
Blue, where he hauls his kind. I would have it all
My way: at the top of that tree I place
The New World’s last eagle
Hunched in mangy feathers giving
Up on the theory of flight.
Dear God of the wildness of poetry, let them mate
To the death in the rotten branches,
Let the tree sway and burst into flame
And mingle them, crackling with feathers,
In crownfire. Let something come
Of it something gigantic legendary
Rise beyond reason over hills
Of ice screaming that it cannot die,
That it has come back, this time
On wings, and will spare no earthly thing:
That it will hover, made purely of northern
Lights, at dusk and fall
On men building roads: will perch
On the moose’s horn like a falcon
Riding into battle into holy war against
Screaming railroad crews: will pull
Whole traplines like fibres from the snow
In the long-jawed night of fur trappers.
But, small, filthy, unwinged,
You will soon be crouching
Alone, with maybe some dim racial notion
Of being the last, but none of how much
Your unnoticed going will mean:
How much the timid poem needs
The mindless explosion of your rage,
The glutton’s internal fire the elk’s
Heart in the belly, sprouting wings,
The pact of the “blind swallowing
Thing,” with himself, to eat
The world, and not to be driven off it
Until it is gone, even if it takes
Forever. I take you as you are
And make of you what I will,
Skunk-bear, carcajoy, bloodthirsty
Non-survivor.
Lord, let me die but not die
Out.
May 17, 2014
May 17, 2014 at 7:08 AM UTC
I was teetering on the precipice
of something.
edging towards the glimmer.
mashing tongues,
you tore me limb from limb.
I'm glazed with sweat.
you baste me in honeydew.
in the bedroom we speak in vowels:
oooOOHHhhooo
uUUHhh.
AAAAaaahhh
The sounds of death,
Long awaited for.
I died like this every night and loved every minute of it, bruised down to my bones.
i i i, want moremoremore.
Give my teeth a whitening.
You are the eye of the storm
the first leg into a pair of pants
the bone with the best sense of humor.
you left me high,
but not dry.
accept this broken french as a gesture of my affinity:
je taime
tu me manques
je tadore mon lapin
bisou bisou
Sep 6, 2016
Sep 6, 2016 at 11:45 PM UTC
WE count the broken lyres that rest
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber,
But o'er their silent sister's breast
The wild-flowers who will stoop to number?
A few can touch the magic string,
And noisy Fame is proud to win them:--
Alas for those that never sing,
But die with all their music in them!
Nay, grieve not for the dead alone
Whose song has told their hearts' sad story,--
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep
O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow.
O hearts that break and give no sign
Save whitening lip and fading tresses,
Till Death pours out his longed-for wine
Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses,--
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven!
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 9:20 PM UTC
The ancestral diet of Stars, being Other Stars
has left no scars, save open black and yawning vast.
No retrograde Oblivion... only galactic swirls
and elastic Space between worlds. that never last.
and Eternity.
my modernity nips and pleats my yellow teeth
after long whitening by paste and bristle. i chew the gristle
of the dead sow
and club the weaning pups of Cerberus
with an eyelash and a long blink.
i tread the narrows, flatly -
and conquer the quizzical conundrums
by simply asking.
My Rocket Science... laughing
at your grecian urn
to paint the herrings red.
i'm out of my depth.
but yes means 'yes' and we ' no' it.
if Nothing else.
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 10:32 PM UTC
THE Danaan children laugh, in cradles of wrought gold,
And clap their hands together, and half close their eyes,
For they will ride the North when the ger-eagle flies,
With heavy whitening wings, and a heart fallen cold:
I kiss my wailing child and press it to my breast,
And hear the narrow graves calling my child and me.
Desolate winds that cry over the wandering sea;
Desolate winds that hover in the flaming West;
Desolate winds that beat the doors of Heaven, and beat
The doors of Hell and blow there many a whimpering
ghost;
O heart the winds have shaken, the unappeasable host
Is comelier than candles at Mother Mary's feet.
1.3k
I worry you will fall
As you teeter up on top of your insecurities
Stamping them with your materialism
"PRADA"
Attempting to hide them below your feet and beneath your masks of paint
Attempting to keep them out of frame, out of the photos, out of view,
But the photographs were over-exposed
And now your nakedness is only covered by your self-doubt
Your lack of self-worth.
Don't try to hide the tears you cry out of unappreciative sadness
No need to validate happiness
With crest whitening strips
Because all they do is stain your already filthy mouth.
Bleach couldn't wash the ignorance from those gums.
Your cavities sloshed with your parents Chardonnay
and chocolate fountains drip upon your white dresses.
I try so hard to remain kind
Remain happy
Remain real
When all I can do is laugh
And hope you understand
That all I am is sad.
There is only sadness
When the best view that I have
Is of your huge fake ****
May 5, 2013
May 5, 2013 at 9:31 AM UTC
The softest beach of sunburnt sand
Comes flush with waves of turquoise warmth
At the tips of my hand
A fresh breath of air puffs my skin
Feisty coconut and cucumber scents
Fight in the influence of the wind
Pushing backward with a quickening allure
At arm’s length the beauty bows
Breaking each edge, the whitening pure
With a subtle pull each wave hits shore
Then water ebbs its playful game
Returning again for a little more
In a way serene, my defenses lay bare
Staring Life face to face, with tactile reassurance
I grasp for strands of ocean hair
Dec 16, 2011
Dec 16, 2011 at 6:47 PM UTC