If you just looked in my eyes
you'd see
the
  s
          u
        I
               c
                **   i
           d
                           e

No instrument could torture
More than memories of their room
He cursed all thought
Under blankets that once held her
Because they had violently fought
Within the darkness of his gloom

No half pint would do
For a man who talks to himself
“I know!” he yelled
“Don’t tell me what is true
It was by my hand she was felled
Her love didn’t die by itself”

“I can’t really sing”
Said the sad man sadly
“But if only I could (!)
Words that ring
From instruments of wood
Would always love her madly!”

The staggering symphony
Sounds that mocked romance
He wept hoping the morning dew
Would awaken her sympathy
But the answer he already knew
Her heart had given it's last chance

Great blind men see all,
But you are no gifted prophet,
Your claims are hollowed out
Your visions are tenebrous and ignorant --
Stop acting like you know me,
Stealing days, months, years
Does not mean I am yours;
My wings are clipped, but I still fly
My voice is silent, but I still sing.
You avoid my eyes, yet
You do not own your wrongs,
These bruises that go unnoticed,
These scars that are invisible.
Stop ignoring me! I’m still here.
I’m still trying to heal what is hurt,
Bind wounds opened by your hands.
Blind man, with eyes that do not see me,
Thinks he has ascendancy over me.
Blind man, oh my dear Blind man,
I hope you fall in your chosen darkness.

I'll never have the style of J.K's **** chic
Nor the grace, sass, and presence of the black she-goddess.
The blondes and skinnies and populars and poors
will never look at me with desire.
no,
I'll never be like them.
I can run and follow,
but when the swans glide across the water
I will drown.
I can chase them
squealing for approval
but when they take flight
I'll be left behind.

I'll never be beautiful,
wanted,
rich,
fabulous,
admired,
be the object of another's jealousy.
No I''ll never be them
I'll never have that life.

I'm an ugly pink pig,
but just as an ugly pink pig,
there's nothing I can do about it.
So **** it all
I'm an ugly pink Pig,
I'll grow tusks
be a nasty slobbering Boar
I'm ugly I know it
and it's time to stop crying
time to stop feeling miserable.
I'm ugly and you're gonna know it
won't be able to avoid it
I'll shove my crooked nose in your face
your eyes will play connect-the-dots with my acne
My endomorphic fat will make you glad you're not me
My scraggly hair will give you relief over your haircut
my much too big head is gonna leave you admiring
your fine-sized head in the mirror.

Go to the city friend,
go and live and be glorious,
should you need me
I'll be in the farm
hidden in the swamp
slobbering and snarling
with the company of bugs.
and there,
my friend,
my swan,
my hero,
my goddess,
there, I shall be happy.

Here I am;
stuffing my face in a Brookeshires parking lot like some ravenous animal, with a cupcake I bought myself.
Writing a half assed poem to pass the time while I wait for a response.
But, we've all been there.. Right?

Please don’t call me beautiful
when your hands are between my legs,
and god forbid you say it as a seg-way
between you’re so hot
and my caution, your response
you’re sure you don’t want to?
I’m pretty sure the way my body looks,
nineteen and stress-infused with an Oreo belly
isn’t really what you pictured beneath my blouse,
and I’m positive you didn’t listen
to the story about my dad and the bad prom dress
because you cared. It was just sentiment. You said it was beautiful,
but really you wanted me to believe the act
like a description in the Playbill
and ride that trust all the way until the curtain dropped.
Please don’t call me beautiful
when the word ******* is before it
or if we are ******* because making love
is for married couples and you don’t even want me
sticking around for the ****** sunrise that peers
underneath your shade every morning.

Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m crying—
crack me open and watch the colors bleed
like a painting that hasn’t dried. Admire
the light that peaks through the clear parts
like a windowpane, no blinds.
Tell me I’m beautiful when I’m laughing,
when I’m reading my favorite part of a book,
when I’m stuffing my face with peanut-butter
pretzel bites and I haven’t washed my sheets in weeks,
and I’ll know you can’t be lying
because I’ve listened to the waves your heart makes
when you’re sleeping and I’ve called your smile
to the surface many times when you’ve tried
to deflect it back inside. You’ll know that
and you’ll know I’m beautiful.  
Call me beautiful
when you’re not even trying.
Call me beautiful when you’re by yourself
and the smell of my hair is still on your pillow,
or the memory of how dumb I sounded
singing my favorite song breaks your heart back
to the best little pieces.

He brushes lips of chapped silver
against her eager waiting ears
words dipped in warm honey gold
weave through the still morning air into
pretty distractions and buttercup dreams

She’s falling falling f a l l i n g
into those alluring violet eyes
they make for the perfect Solemn and
Earnest when he wants them to be
spinning seductive stardusted half-promises

The gossamer sunlight glints off
his aquamarine hair, and it’s like
like winter’s breath crystallized on the ends
of those beautiful blue strands;
they snare her in their breathtaking tangles

She’s almost asking to be bound
so he complies with those
clever ivory fingers on smooth piano keys
as rich chocolate swirls of his music enfold,
intoxicating-saccharine like whisky truffles

As he reaches out to draw her close,
the world soars in a myriad of colours.