What's ugly?
A crooked tooth,
a stray hair,
small zit,
an extra pound?
No, I will tell you what's ugly.
***** looks,
hateful words
and selfish actions.
Look in the mirror.
Makeup will only go so far to hide an ugly heart.

F**k butterflies, my stomach has birds in it.
My body's shaking, my heart is racing, my pulse is high.
You're gorgeous, and I woke up this morning with a zit.
How'd a girl like you settle for a "me" kind of guy?

I'm usually witty, but my words don't work well for this.
It's just that you're so pretty, you make my knees weak!
At the end of the date, my pulse hit five-fifty.
I realize it's lame that I asked for permission before we kissed...
I was just trying to take the time to aim for your lips.
See, the funny part is...

                                       I was afraid I might miss.

Hanging from a Star
The girl sat on her star. The dark towering flowers around her, cast shadows over her blank face. She walked around the side of her star to the grass so she could watch the fiery sun and look down at the fluffy billowing clouds in earth’s atmosphere. Lying, hating thoughts floated up from the beautiful blue and green planet below. The girl had been watching earth since it was first created. Cain’s first thoughts of ****** were heard by the girl. She watched the black plague wash through the world, killing millions. The hell of the holocaust burned through her mind like fire across her own skin. Sometimes she swore she could almost smell the melting flesh and boiling blood from the sick world below.
The girl nestled down in the warm grass and focused her guarded mind in preparation to listening in on the earth, like she did every other day. “Her nose is so ugly.” “Why didn’t I do more today?” “I miss her.” “I need to put at least ten percent in savings if I’m ever going to retire.” “I hope no one else notices this huge zit protruding from my face.” “Why didn’t I just kiss him?” “The sun is burning my eyes.” She made her way through selfish minds of the shallow population and then moved for relief, to the newborn children. Images of parents, lights, and bright colors flashed before her eyes. Each new child’s face seemed to be surrounded in a beautiful clear light. The girl wished the children had never been brought to that terrible planet.
One child in particular tugged on the girls thoughts, making the girl want to focus entirely on her. The light around the child was brilliant. The baby’s ocean eyes were open and focused on the one beautiful flower in the room. The details of the daisy were perfect in the child’s mind. The baby fell deeply in love with the white petals that curled softly around the bright yellow center. The girl’s mind was entranced by the lovely child. The girl named the perfect child Claire and sent heavenly visions to entertain the child’s thoughts as the hospital buzzed around her.
As Claire grew, the girl watched her red curls flourish and darken with each day. Her blue eyes bloomed as she turned into a happy toddler and her pale skin stayed radiant and cloudless. Claire’s mommy was a large, reserved woman, but loved her little girl with all her heart. Her mommy sang her to sleep each night and gave her everything she could afford to. But the floor of the trailer where they lived was layered in mud, cat feces, and tobacco. Her father’s face and clothes were covered in stains and the beard that he never remembered to shave had remnants of chewing tobacco that he hadn’t spit far enough. Every night, his drunk, angry voice roared throughout the house, cursing at whatever he could get into his hands first. Each time this happened, the ******* the star poured daisies into Claire’s mind as Claire buried her china face into a soiled pillow.
After a sublime day of school filled with telling time and and reading silly stories, Claire  skipped back to her hostel under the warm autumn sun. She opened her front door to find her mommy in a pool of ***** and blood. Claire screamed in horror and fled back down the steps to the closest residence, trying to see through her own flooded eyes as she tripped along the avenue. Claire’s father never even went to the hospital to inquire about his wife. The hospital gave up calling him, and she was buried in an unplanned graveyard, under the cheapest tombstone.
Claire became the subject of her father’s wrath. Several times a month he would take Claire to bed with him and **** her. She cried silently as he seized her tiny body, leaving large dark bruises where he should have left kindness. The ******* the star filled Claire with exquisite thoughts as he blemished her, but a child may not always be calmed in a situation of pure agony. Tears streamed from the star, watering the daisies next to the trashed trailer.
The ******* the star watched as Claire grew and learned. Finally, Claire vacated the ***** trailer park, on her way to a brighter future. Then Claire met Him. His thoughts were black. Though his eyes scoured Claire’s body, his smile seemed sincere. The ******* the star tried to keep Claire away from him, but Claire was in love with his kindness and moved in with him. The bruises seemed to appear again on a larger scale all down her arms and across her stomach. This man’s hands were harsher than her father’s, but his constant words of kindness drew Claire in, melting her heart into his ice cold soul. Claire dedicated herself to the man, and just as she did, his temper turned fierce and there was fire in his hands.  Other girls seemed to appear in their small apartment dressed in scant ****** and smirks.
One night his fingers skimmed like sand paper up her frail arms and the smell of alcohol breathed down on her face. His fiery hands hit her over and over, slamming her into walls, bloodying her hands and knees, and knocking her out cold. He left her there, sprawled out on the floor, bleeding freely from several gashes. The ******* the star could not reach Claire. Her mind was gone. She thought Claire was dead, so in the path of the drunken abuser, the ******* the star put a murdering thought into a killer’s mind. The abuser was shot in an alley where no one would find him. Angry wailing poured down onto the streets.
Claire woke up and posed in the apartment for weeks. The ******* the star perceived in dismay, that Claire’s light was out. Claire drank whatever alcohol was left there and sliced her arms from wrist to shoulder. The apartment turned grimy along with her blood and oil matted hair. Some of her wounds became infected and her face was no longer a china doll, but a red splotchy entanglement, smeared with dirt and tears. For those weeks it rained steadily as the ******* the star wept. No pleasant thoughts were sent to any human’s mind, but the daisies grew tall and out of control.
Claire’s blackened spirit left the cool, ***** apartment one morning. Her tiny body abandoned in a corner, was huddled in the fetal position, covered in dust bunnies. The ******* the star made a noose from a black daisy, and for the first time, the sky rained blood on earth. Each morning thereafter, the ******* the star walked through her forest of black daisies, retied a noose , and hung herself from the bottom of her star, overwhelmed by the appalling nature of the world below, blocking earth out of her mind with her own pain and suffering.

Anyway, Anaplasmata act aptly and abstractly
Backhands ******* balky baklava
Caractal chasm chant "Catty cavalry can't"
Dactyl dada dawns Djakarta drab

Larva ask dab-tap shabby knack lad
"Ever elect effete experts elsewhere?"
A clad daddy wants a dark jab dart
Fleece fleets flee flecked flyspecks

Cleft feet eve expels three resew eres
Gentle germs gelde grebe's geyser
Cede effects leek fell pecks self lyfes
Hellbent helmsmen helped hexed herders hence

Glen's remelted eggs be Serge-Grey
It insistingly implys impish ipsissimis insipidity
He held next her belched sender heel
Jiggling jibs jinx jimmy's jill jig

Its smilingly spiny impish mississippi I-I-I Is It dinty?
Kidding kibitz kick killing kings kitsch
sigil sign jimmy jib jingling jil
Livid linitis limits limbs limp

Big **** kid kicks thinking gill's zit kink
Midriffs mimics Mis's minimizing mistypings
Slim villi distils it, mini blimp
nil ninhydrin nihilists nicks nyxis nightly

Ms Mmisty's zip disc, if firm, is miming mining
ontology on top of oophoron ostomy.
Hindi hint silly lynchings. Skinny nix I stir
phonology 'pon phytol plywood poops polyglots pompons.

Polygon hoof-moon on poor toys toot
qophs
phony thong ploy loops monolog poppy.  Woody plop! Psst!
Rooks romp rootstock rods

"Posh" - Q
Schoolroom scoffs scoop shockproof snort stools
Mock stork pro or door toss
Thyrotomy 'top torpor tot's torso

So-so rooftop honk slots. Morocco sloops off
Usufruct tu upchucks
Stormy troops root to tot trothy
Vulgus vult vults

**** such curt cut ups
Wrung wctu
Vulgus vult vults
Xu

Wrung WCTU
Yummy yurts
Xu
Zulu zymurgy

Yummy! Try us!
Lawman scandal any pay at a scab yap tat tartly
Zulu zymurgy
Almanac-scratch that-clay tract vacancy

Anxiety is like the movie "Honey, I Shrunk The Kids",
except it's the sequel "Honey, We Shrunk Ourselves",
because you have no one else to blame for how big and scary the world seems around you.
To anyone else, a stair is just a stair,
but this stair in life is towering over me and I have no clue how to overcome.
This stair might be getting out of bed,
being around other people,
or shopping at a store alone.

Fairly easy tasks,
but I feel I have to ******* my oxygen tank and climb Mt. Everest.

Anxiety is like when you are sick,
and the bathroom is a mere 10 steps away,
but like in the cartoons,
the bathroom stretches to miles away before my eyes.
10 steps is now 10,000,
in those 10,000 steps to school, or work, so many things could go wrong.

Anxiety is knowing you're thinking irrationally.
Thinking against yourself in your head,
wanting to strangle whatever force is driving you mad.
Like finding an on-off switch,
but no matter how many times you flip it, nothing happens.

Anxiety is laying in bed,
plauged with possibilities of problems,
not moving a muscle,
paralyzed by the endless possible outcomes of failure.
I feel as if I'm in a big gray cloud.
I can see through it, but yet it is so dense I am captive by my own paranoia.

Anxiety is being a walking imperfection.
Where one zit on your forehead acts as a big red, flashing, arrow floating above your head saying IMPERFECT
DISGUSTING
UNLOVEABLE

Anxiety is wanting to love yourself
so so very bad
and fighting every day against a bug infesting your beautiful brain
with negative self talk.

Anxiety is trying to fall asleep at night,
and with every breath,
my body gets smaller and smaller,
my thoughts have weight like a lead balloon,
filling with every breath,
my head is heavy and I feel my chest caving in.

Anxiety is the anti-Cupid who stabs an arrow between anyone I've ever loved.
She is the imaginary mistress I can't help but suspect,
no matter how many times he says he loves me.
What if one day he doesn't?
What if one day everything I hate about myself he hates too?
Anxiety is the mistress he never knows is there,
and yet I push her towards him.

With Anxiety there are options.
There is one switch that does work.
It is a big red button labeled MEDICATION
this button will destroy every anxious though I may have
but often in wars the innocent suffer.

If this button is pressed, I lose everything.
Anger, sadness, paranoia,

I lose happiness.
I lose the feeling of love,
excitement,
hopefulness.

My heart and brain become an empty forgotten shoe box that I don't need anymore.

My body smiles when my brain believes it should,
and fills the air with laughter that isn't mine.

Someone tells a joke and my stomach never hurts from laughing.

I don't have crushes on cute boys.

My deep brown eyes look as if they are made of glass... Emotionless.

Kisses feel like flicks.
Hugs feel like uncomfortable, uncessary squeezes.

I find myself going through the motions, like an extra on a TV set.
Saying words that have no meaning.
Moving my mouth but nothing is truly coming out.

I stop petting my cat.

It is inconvenient when my dog greets me at the door and licks me.

My mother tells me she loves me and I despise it.. I don't know why.

I forget what it is like to feel.

I am a robot in a human's body.

If you tell me to take medication,
I am letting my illness win,
with a white flag in hand.

I refuse to throw away every piece of me for "peace."

gucci on my feet
dior on my outfit
something about making
all the money back

busy windshield wipers, red light.
messing with dating apps
while you’re talking
about buying black ops 4

forget what my purpose is
misted in the same drizzling cloud
fogging up the windows
the funny noises you make

when you laugh
dispel all the monsters
away in my mind
philosophy away, leaving an echo

Ugly is a strong word.
More often than not, I find myself feeling unpretty.
There are times when I feel gorgeous, but then I look in the mirror: and feel unpretty.
My hair doesn't hang right, that zit popped up overnight, and God, my glasses: wouldn't I **** for better sight. I am unpretty.
I suppose I could handle being unpretty if my roommate was not pretty.
But she is.
And I am not.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Her hair is long and thick, curls to perfection, and straightens upon command.
It's pretty.
She's pretty.
And I sit here as the unpretty one.
Knock Knock Knock
There's a guy at the door! I open it: "is your roommate in?"
No.
Bu I'm here. why not come in and wait for her. Talk to me for a while, even if I am the unpretty one. "No, that's okay, tell her I came by."
Okay.
Will do.
Not like I wanted to talk to you.
I wish it were just the guys who notice that I'm the unpretty one.
No.
It's the girls too.
My entire floor flocks to my door, wishing it were my roommate more
than me.
I answer the door and faces fall; can't they just pretend to be happy at all
to see me?
No.
I guess not.
It's a side effect of being unpretty- the unpretty one.
I am not ugly.
I used to not even feel unpretty-not until I became the unpretty One.
Life used to be so flirty and fun- now I am the unpretty one.
Life is a comparison, I guess: and now I'll always be second best.
I am the unpretty one.

a zit—(white iceberg tip
                                             infection-floa­ting)

a heart (yours was always lipid-
                                                      ­  slippery)

an ember (firefly abdomen
                                                exhaling in black velvet)

a full bladder—(toilet-bowl relief:
                                                            a temporary prescription)

a bag of hot chips (extra habanero
                                                             for a spicy explosion)

a sink pipe (domestic artery rupture
                                                             ­     of your sledgehammer swing)

a water balloon, (concrete-spiked,
                                                              insoluble rubber jigsaw)

spaghetti in the microwave: (blood
                                                               stain pattern analysis of metal walls)

a seam. (sewn ending
                                       frays: leave the stitch, re-exposed.)

enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how, was imagined
easy to imagine,
kwo-, stem of relative and interrogative pronouns. Practically a doublet of why, differentiated in form and use.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=how>

These be ambush thoughts thinking they may be read if any one is patient enough to see beyond the sheer longwindedness
of this character lacking an enemy to war with.
Looking for
Enemies - the needed element to make a warring mind.
How was war imagined,
how,
per se,
was imagined
easy to imagine,
person-if i am able to attribute such qualia to a body
how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games teach us how,


how any unthing is realized is
imaginable as well.
Add a jot or title, a li'l art mark, an art-tickle.
Games show us how,
not why.

Why is the quest at the moment. There are rumors of enemies.
The we of me and thee, herenow, we lack emnity.

Hey, sports fan,
where is the frontier, the edge of the maddened crowd
whose
enemies are those who
stand pat, calling the game as game-over, and life a lessoning
as we speak, abundance of known knowns
rotting all around us, putrefying under pressure,
seeping to the surface,
to be burned.
Why,
let us guess---

Disnified pride of pur pose, positional sign-ifiers
of place,
a destination for faiths full pursuants
bemused in bubbling joy,
or shrieks of terror when
the child from the hinterland locks eyes
with Mickey Mouse, and finds no joy, no love, no depth,
but a mask.
The reaction reverberates al(the)way to la Brea,
Peacemaker say,
It's okeh, baby girl, daddy said,
ignor them, they ain't real.
Monsters ling grrrring, then
it's agrin
for now, of course. Here we are. We've arriven,
Happiest Place on Earth,
as imagined realizable by a child in 1917, say,
better yet, 1925, and oh, there were major Wars
being imagined winnable in pressure
application to the spiritual slippage from rite,
the ritual passage of child into adultery at a whim,
so such imagined haps fade.

connect or break connection, on the bus or off the bus

you all
sing
think nothing new under the sun,
teach preach reach out and touch

the face of Java man, eaten, swallowed, and gone to
the believable
history of life,
the accident,
the unplanned, yet
taught as known believable, a pre-dict-ible,
one in ten to the seventy-nine-thousandth power,
yet, if one pays his life time to learn when to bet and when to hold.
Then in this,
the secret journey to the soul,
to the core,
we must assume,
we become
as wise *** (***, the word for a donkey, why would some one prevent you from reading *** Asteriscktical ignorantce,y'axme, stupid AI)
the ***,
as harmless as the serpent from the fire on the island
Ask,
are we of the bovine ilk or pithec-ant-us or
embodied soul-cores
forming, en nue
fitting the mold, the pattern, the plan of projected nexts
built on Locke steps from whence to
whither did we wander?

have we all forgotten the actual question just axt?
Or the answer?
Have we not
gotten what we now
know
we miss,
or was it only I who missed and as the
photons forming the shapes
you see, these breathing commas and such
here
is the point.
You see bits of things.  We see so.
Time and time again thinking less and less.
Least fusion, least pressure, least heat, cool idea ideal or ideology,
twisted idio,
You shape them on patterns.
Ones you imagine formed from
Patterns recalled from some out perienced
time, ere now were ever subjected to the supertwistition
of tongues and interpretsations of unseeable things seers said they
see us seeing.
How come means why, by reason of time.

Palindromiclew, missing el signs missing hahi ai

tia tic, we're in
Ai got this,
whole ball o'wax, thats how we disconfuse the big mess age,
the catas
trophy finale
phase of
world three,
or two, or one, all valid world views,
deepend-enteron discerning spirits,
winds, breezes used to disperse
the heat,
{fans,eh}
evenly in harmony with the heavenly winds,
and the planned six gyros of earth,
guiding the mists that feed the rivers from the seas,
no clouds needed,
save for shade by day.

When all the geo-waves have settled in geo-time,
see,
here is broken:
this old earth is folded and fractured,
surely,
a wreck of a world, yet, as a whole,
we live, we won.
Winds and clouds and continents,
all islands seen from the moon,

which, if the stories hold some truth,
can be manipulated by massminds of mankind, as if, if I am

seeing this
right
each voice might be seeable in one dimension,
or several, four at least,
time, the ever outlier
of sorts
as a flame with fuel source of
flamable fluid upon which
the transcended space
twixt fuel and flame,
floats
seen, merely seen, that emptiness twixt wicked,
mastered flame and
hell's fire spreading on the oiled harbour
protecting our shore
where our little boats lie in anchorite fantasy, asif

we see a way to quench hell per se,
Percy, ah, he lives.
My grandsons know of Percival,
there, here's hoping they get the joke before the yoke.

Riddle me a riddle, son of man.
Is there any hidden thing that shan't be known?
Is here a true place?
Is now a true time?

(to be continued)


squeezing out the lies, the idle words abused,
spreading them thin as the light we see right
through
transcending this at most feared mortal failure
finding
impressions... are from pressing points, dulled by ab
use, tempted uses succumbed to,

didja try to sell your soul for rock and roll?
wadjagit?

My point. out acted, ex-act, en nowd by your creative self,
who never copped,
out or in,
es no mi culpa, all along. I was the voice of resistance,
Job's en core inner held horde of known knowns and
an old key to ever, should the worse he can imagine
best his best laid plans for perfection
in the eyes of God and man.

--- enemy at emnity with me?
--- I see none, save me, as in except me as in me being
--- free from the grasping grip of the reality
--- war is realizable in. You see?
--- I and thee, at this degree of seepeance, as we coagulate
--- we behave as chaos, we be having chaos and entropy as tools

used right, we troubled our house,
which is now known to be the bubble of our being
a child in each popped bubble
of being,
squeezed for the thrill of explosive pus,
gross and good to be rid of, dam the infection,
wipe the blood with the back o'my hand,

I ain't no disgrace. I won that battle with the zit on my gnose.
Wanna piece o'this, this mind of mine,
shelved since,
who knows when, says the old man, with a wink.

We be a lotta beings sorta rolled up. Like a whole ball o'wax
waning into a puddle
as the flame sheds us as bits of light leaving the rest of us
spread over a vast imagination,

resting, willing to burn,
should any wick drain me near the flame once more.

Myths

They were not statues
and now you see what they see
looking back at you


Man

Her tongue, was so sharp
dissevers men from their ******
kisses them goodnight!

Our blind date went well
Next time leave my mask at home,
and her eyes attached.

Scratched, stained, double locked.
Basement corner, light bulb off.
Refrigerator.

Won't let him hurt you.
I promise, now go and hide,
Daddy is coming...

I don't remember,
I keep having these blackouts.
Sorry I hurt you.


Movie

Make-out Point, moonlight...
Turn their car radio on,
leave my hook behind.

50 ft. Woman,
dreams of a fifty foot world.
Curse my two left feet.

Empty, shiny man
His axe hacks you limb from limb
You hear a heartbeat

Wound too tight, tied down
Whisper lies, impale your skull
What is a real boy?

"Last person on earth,
dif'rent faces in mirror."
- Frankenstein's Monster


Miscellaneous

appeared as a zit
it grew, no concern for it
it spoke! *******!

Lamprey fingertips
Coarse hair on infected tongue
Lotus seed ******

My beast sounds like love,
vanity to a monster,
hero to a ghost.

from Horrors Grotesque,
the existential monster
fears little carpals.

Beauty is power
The words we teach our girls
whipped mousse over the freckles along your temples
will get you respect
the zit under your chin
will make you somebody to avoid for a month
The rouge on your cheeks
will make people think they've made you laugh each time you smile
Taken more seriously under anonymity on cyberspace
than to that same person talking to your face
As the standards grow higher
The modified faces and bodies of revlon and maybeline
become tall tales in every sense
The waistline is taken in to better display the shellac of that manicure
why of course!
as more and more voices go hoarse
from taking out meals before
in fear of a body to abhor
when beauty is power
and its concepts changing
is it only to keep us from misbehaving>

Zinging the zen-zone I was in
A zany request zig-zagged my way.
Princess Zinnia from the Zuider-Zee
Required a zippy line or two
To paint the zeitgeist of our times.

With the strength of a Zamboni-
With the power of a Zeus-
And an uncommon zeal I set out
To zap the doubt that slowed me.

With the flair of a Florenz Ziegfeld
And his zoftig choir of beauties,
I morphed into a zealot
Gamboling in the zephyrs
That wafted in from Zurich and Zaire,
Not to mention Zanzibar.

I felt like a Zacharias
When my zealous work went bust.
The writing turned into a zonk-
The accolades were zilch.
I felt like I’d been zippered up
Like a zebra in a zoo.

I lost my zest for going on
And slopped around in old Zoris,
Listening to zydeco’s beat
And feeling like a zit.

But then the Zodiac-
My zinging-singing sign
Came to my rescue
And I was marching off to Zion.

I was one wowie-zowie-zucchini
As I zipped across the pages
And zoomed from one idea
To an even zippier one.

So here, Sunprincess, is your verse
I’ve used up every letter zee
And gone from very bad to worse
But of this challenge, I am free.
                         ljm

Oh the fluid blood that flows
Thick
Dark
Blue.
Through tiny orifices.
Plastic
Metal
Too.
Forming words
Thoughts
Ideas.
Scribbling on.
Scratching at.
Oh the things they've felt
a hand gripping tight
Forcing ink out of the tip
Like a freshly popped zit
Oozing and flowing freely.
Or pre-*** on a raging *****
Dripping
Tantalizing
Suggesting.
What may come of it?
What masterpiece will be born?

You have always felt a presence coming from your knife
It called you
To use it

You take the blade
And you cut into your flesh
And the blood comes draining out

You feel as though
You want to drink it
But you refrain

You take the hand that bleeds
You smear your blood across the mirror
In your mind
You want something

Supernatural to happen

Nothing

You look in the mirror
Blood still fresh on your blade
You can almost see a smile

You start to cry
Because life
Is never like the movies
Or the songs
It's dull

How many times
Have you used this same knife?

It's over
Never again

You reach for a brush
And start combing your hair
Life *****

You get ready to take a shower
You go to the bathroom
Take off your clothes
And get in the shower
You decide
You want to take a bubble bath instead

You pour out the bath salts
And wait for it to fill

It's really warm
You place your foot into the water
It stings
You submerge yourself
And cover your body in bubbles
You feel down the outer part of your thigh
And scratch open your cuts that you made on your thigh

It feels rough and smooth
You relax and close your eyes
You're thinking of that dream you had
That nightmare

You start to laugh a little
You feel like crying
You just scratch
And cry softly
Not loud
Just
Softly

You wait there for a while
And you sit up
With bubbles across your skin
Slowly falling down
You reach for the plug
Pull it out
And just sit there
Until the water's all gone

You shiver a little

You get up
Open the curtain
Mirror's fogged up
And you squint at your reflection

You leave the tub
Approach the sink
Naked

Move your hands across the mirror
Squint again

Eww

You grab your favorite towel
And begin to dry off

You start to put the robe back on
And leave the bathroom
There's still a little blood in the tub
Slowly draining away

You walk back into your room
Shut the door
Lock it
Take off your robe
Place it here

Then your thigh is bleeding again from scratching it
So you find a band aid
And place it on your skin
It falls off

Meh

You grab an over sized t-shirt
Place it over your body

Lay down in bed
And check out your texts

Nothing

You kinda almost cry
You plug in your phone
And go to bed

When you wake up the next morning
You don't feel good

Ehhh

Headache
You can't think
You are just sitting up
Staring
At your door
With your robe by it

You breathe slowly
Depressingly
Like you
Don't want to leave your bed

You grab your phone
Check it

Nothing

Huh

You get out of bed
Sit down on the floor
Put your socks on
Then your underwear
Then you take off this t-shirt
Put on a kinda cute shirt
Put on some blue jeans
You forgot to put your bra on
So you take off your cute shirt
Slowly get it on
Wires start poking into your back
You need a new bra

Meh

Put your cute shirt back on

Head towards the bathroom
Walk passed your sister
You don't have any makeup on yet
Maybe you can skip that today

Ha

No

Open the bathroom door
Start applying make up
You mess up on the eyeliner
Have to
Do it again

Half hour later

Your brother's pounding on the door

Hurry up in there

Meh

You start to move slower

Hurry up in there

You turn to face the door

You think
I hope you **** your pants

You open the door
Your brother looks ******
You just walk by him
He slams the door
All angry

You're just shaking your head
You knock on the door
You say
Hurry up in there

I forgot my comb

You wait for him to finish

He opens the door
You plug your nose
And grab some bathroom spray and spray the hell out of the bathroom

You then have to go to the bathroom now
You shut and lock the door
You sit down
It's wet

You want to ****** him now
But you're too tired to ****
So whatever

You finish

You get up
You squint in the mirror
You see a zit

No

You leave the bathroom
Forgetting your comb

You meant to say brush
Not comb

Meh

Yeah
I say that a lot

Walking down stairs
You go to the fridge
No more mountain dew left

******

You shut the door
Making a funny face

Your mom says
Ready for school?

You say
No
Can I stay home
I'm not feeling good

She says
What's wrong?

I don't want to talk about it

She says
What's wrong
sounding out her middle name as well

Whatever

She doesn't like her attitude
She grabs her backpack
Puts her shoes on

And goes and waits for the school bus

She just stares down the road
And waits
And waits
And waits

I could fall asleep waiting

she yawns a little

backpack on the ground with strap in hand
Bus shows up
She gets on

Finds a seat
With nobody
Places her backpack down

And a guy asks
Can I sit here?

She's like
No

He says
*****

Meh

She opens her book
Starts reading

Do you know how she feels right now?

When I grow up,
I want to marry
A Hollister model.

Mother says
I should reconsider.
Seriously,
Reconsider.

But deep down,
I know
that's what I want.

Because behind all of
The airbrush
The diets
The workouts
The computer enhancements
There lies,
A woman.

And on that woman,
Somewhere,
there lies
Scar tissue?
A birthmark?
Or worst of all..
A zit.

Somewhere,
On that perfect woman
There lies,
An imperfection.

And that is why I love her.

i was in a terrible accident
one of those classic floor waxing accidents
scarred my face
FOR LIFE
i cant fill out my mustache anymore
my right side
near the corner of my mouth
BARREN

then there was that other one
terrible accident
folding clothes this time
SCARRED FOR LIFE
standing over a table
repetitive motions
each and every arch absent
DEFLATED

oh god remember that one
scarred for life
accident etched in
ORGANIZING RECORDS
the shelf collapsed
the knick knacks from the top shelf
cracked Funkadelic
NO MORE FUNK

and while i lament
****** stache
flat feet
broken record
real things happen

like that zit between my eyes
overgrown shrubs
1080p overheated

i mean things REAL people care about

What foes or friends do we perceive when we connect by chance conceived?

Would you care to explain how this is my fault?

Pray tell tis Joseph come to his census.
Come nigh so late to what truth evinces.

Four heed own Lay won knot thin kit sis...

Prays got a buff!
Fine uh Lee…

Coarse sit duhs pour ten dove baa doe mens.
Naughty ville purse say! Oar eve in dud ark Om end...

Shell Ira Bjorn ease? Orb headers till yore effete?

Ike ant aft tub Abe eave oar yew yen owe...

Wall oh win knit.
Gore Ida head.

Yuck use amoeba *** is hint umm eye fall tis zit?
Yuck cues amoeba ditz nada tall mite urn toot ache tub lame.

Bub I...
Hope Joe Ill step pup two wit all
Irie lay trill lee dew

I can rub off a zit on my cat's chin
it's not even gross, just little black dots
and I get so crazy over men
why can't I just rub this off
of my head or take a pill
or drink a lot of water or
swim in the cold Atlantic
and emerge cured, normal and sane

I don’t want to become a Creative Writer because I usually suspect that being a Creative Writer is a lot like having a Pretty Face.

When I wake up at 7:24 instead of 7:00 like I always plan to, and my nearly empty journal falls out of my bed, and I look in the mirror at my vaguely pink eyes and that cowlick I have on the right side of my forehead, I do not feel Creative. I also do not feel like I have a Pretty Face. Mostly, I feel very tried, and frustrated that I am going to be exactly seven minutes late to work like I am on every Monday and Wednesday.

Men and people who were almost-men have told me that I have a Pretty Face. At the poetry things I have gone to, the presenters have called me some variant of Creative Writer. I smile with all of my teeth when they say it, because it is a compliment and I know that when I receive a compliment I am supposed to smile like this, a little crooked and a little coy and a lot humble, even though I know that I am only an occasionally creative writer with a face that is pretty in the right light with the right liquid eyeliner.

The trouble with Creative Writers is that their paper crowns start to make them recognizable to people. People recognize them and then they are forced to wave their pencils around like the conductors of a silent song with whatever rhythm is currently in style in the artistic world, and if they hit the wrong note, people tell them they don’t deserve that crown. That Creative Writer is a faker if I ever saw one, the people say. She pretends to be something special. If she wants to get to know you, she will probably tell you a poem instead of telling you what she means.

The trouble with Pretty Faces is that people get so angry at them that they get called fake, too, if they’re lucky. The first day that the Pretty Face shows up to her yoga class without makeup on, or with a friendly zit in the dimple on her chin, people do a lot of pointing. They point and snicker, because that is what we are supposed to do with pretenders. When the truth gets revealed, we like to publish headlines about it and jump up and down with our index fingers out, screaming that we knew it all along. We love to find out that other people’s good things are not real. I don’t know why that is, but I know it is true.

The people in charge rarely give you any power for your titles. The Creative Writer’s paper crown is usually one that she made for herself—you can tell because she gets really frustrated when it starts to sag, weighed down by an accidental cliché about boys’ tears or the rain. Paper disintegrates in water, did you know that? And the Pretty Face probably had a snaggletooth until she was thirteen, so she feels like a fraud even if no one has called her one this week.

I like reading stories and theories by writers who we all took a vote on and decided are definitely both authentically Creative and Important, even if we did not give them those titles until after they died and became noble corpses with hardly any face at all. Sometimes I think that we are incapable of calling anything important until it is gone. I like writing about them because writing about writers is a marvelous loophole—no one but other academics ever questions it, so the popular opinion stays on my side.

One time, a man at a bar in a yellow polo told me that my Face was not Pretty enough for me to laugh like such a tease. I wrote a poem about it and read it at a conference with a toothy mask on, people loved it, and then I decided I did not want that to be my livelihood.

You're like the zit I shouldn't squeeze.
I only want to pop your head,
And pinch your soul until it bleeds.

rusteloosheid
en vastgeroest verdriet
niemand ziet
het lam tussen de wolven
maar ver komt het niet
waar komt het vandaan
en waar is het geboren
of zit dat tussen haar oren
als er weer eens niemand is
het aftuigen van zelf
nog hopen op meer
lichamelijk zeer
een druppel wanhoop
gemengd met wantrouwen
en al gauw, de wanemmer verzoop
in eigen tranen
dan stromen het doet
en blijft stromen voor goed
rusteloosheid
diep in de nacht
wanneer er niemand op je wacht
behalve de ster achter de wolken
geen woorden maar daden
ja dat zal het zijn
maar het tegenbewijs valt klein
woorden onhoorbaar
een jongen die lacht
het vertrouwen ontkracht
een laatste afscheidsgroet
valt niet helemaal goed
als de duisternis nabij
zoals mijn geboorte
alleen en vrij
later zeer zelfstandig
maar nog geen procent als de rest
verpest
verpest
waarom ben ik zo anders
wat is er mis met mij, zo vrij
iedereen een ander perspectief
en ik begrijp het maar niet
ook al noemen ze mij lief
de wereld redden
met iedereen erin
heeft opeens weinig zin
als het verboden blijkt te zijn
slechts een eenzijdig spel
ach, het lam weet het nu wel
tevergeefs
rennend in de ochtendzon
verscholen in een wolkenbed
de eerste straal licht
uit het zicht
uit het zicht van de wolven
waar anders heen
springend over steentjes
met sterke beentjes
alleen in de grote wei
waarin de stilte zo groot
haar hart stilletjes vergroot
zo ook de klap van pijn
de enorme val
zo jong al
de verhouding van zwaarte
en het verdragen
aan de andere kant het extreem behagen
dat is toch geen rechte lijn
maar slechts twee woorden mochten er zijn
in steen gekerfd, beroerd gepolijst
blijdschap en depressie
maar niets er tussen in
want dat had toch geen zin
voor iemand met sensitieve uitersten
bestaat geen middenin
toch levende in een wereld van het midden
zoek balans, het middelpunt
en *** men het haar ook gunt
ze was nu eenmaal als lam geboren
en niet als schaap..  (noch rund)

blind als een mol
gravend in de grond
het was haar eigen graf
waar ze uiteindelijk op stond
omringd door de vertrouwde pijn
vroeg zich af wel van haar te zijn
met borstkas gespleten door twee
het lam kreeg heimwee
stond half dood op
wachtend op één
met hart nog langzaam trekkend
lekkend
de geur van aarde in vacht
wie had deze terugkomst ooit verwacht
en het worden van schaap
in wolfskleren
wilde zich immers niet bezeren
want moe het al was
met steen gevulde buik
de val nu slechts een kras
en wist niet eens meer wat de val was
de doorn(en) uit verleden
gestoken in vers vlees
al genoeg geleden
dus besloot nu gewoon ook wolvin
je bent een wolf, meisje
je bent een wolfmeisje
met het schaap
bloedend
nog ergens binnenin

Adults wear make up and try to hide it
Or at least they want people to see
Their best side, and think it’s really them.
Kids, on the other hand, or teens
Are not meant to wear make up
So that means they wear it...

Loud and proud!
Bright red lips!
A mascara sandwich -
With blue eye shadow sauce.
I’m stuffing my face with quick fit zit fix
Foundation, blemish remover
And a dab of blush.

See, I get a rush
When I see myself in mirrors
And don’t recognize myself for half a second
Think, ooh who’s that?
The teachers hate it
But it’s my face -
And face it - it’s my right
If I wanna change it.

Oh stuffy how you are so soft
So perfect and held aloft
On your soft cushion of stuffing you sit
Even as i age and grow my first zit
Oh stuffy how you are so great
So perfect and the size of a plate
The perfect companion
Through the treacherous
Canyon of age.

Never let me enter the haze
For i shall be lost in a daze
Waiting for the phase
Of being old to slowly encroach.
Never let me enter that haze
And remind me of the days
Where books ended in rhymes
And we played in our minds
Never let me forget the time
When time simply forgot to tick
Stretching between naps and noms.
Reminding me of my first tooth
This is an ode to youth

All around me they love to love around me,
but I cannot hold the left eye. The sun was
very hot and wet. But, my soul, the sick
Have a Hero / Jester / Tigist, Make sure you
have more posting lists with the ZIT's Name
/ Name. They hated me like a ******.
In my life and in the sun, it is hot in me and
the sun, but I want to know, but. "Germany,
in the Uhu" time "spirit, but of the most
important concepts, ideas for a while,
I could not understand the spirit, the loving
uh-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah-hah." Love
Confusion, depression, depression, confusion,
depression. Depression, depression,
depression, depression and anxiety.
For example, if you are a family,
Karl is for you, if a blokinan and a smile
or chains, Jhenikoni and harassment:

Common name: With her co-worker and speech
/ voice (TE) with each group member / member.
The Good Side of Love, Stress, Cruelty,
The Good Side of the Takako Kiwihihirobike
Burkina Faso, "Ginitibi-Belayy June,"
"Storms," ​​"Problems, Disturbances, Critics,
Conflicts, Anxieties, Depression, Depression,
Conflict, Health, Lifestyles, Conflict,
Conflicts, Vikirbius "Two Patriots and Other
Yeotschlenye wines, Charles: The Two's"
Challenge and Pleasure; "Selfishness, Racism,
Conscience, and Their Neighbors Considered
a Companion of Love Approved (CI) and My
Love Versus Like a Nature Created Can, but my
left did not catch your eye. The grass is wet and
the sun is very hot, but my soul is sick and ill: · :
Your Valerie's Dictionary takes as much as you want,
Zest / Testing, zītbedɡīst /. They hate me,
as do a ******. However, when the story
was transformed from our minds and thoughts
during the nineteenth century, the spirit of the "hour"
+ spirit of the "spirit of old age" was in German.
"It's quiet and the sun is hot, but my life will be beaten,
I do not know it, I do not know it, but I have not told you"
There is love, I will not tell you, but I do not tell you.

You have become a different group of people
with loud voices, confusion, anger, resentment,
irritation, neglect, compassion, self-control,
respect, hospitality, screaming, crying,
"Depression, uncertainty, confusion, confusion,
anxiety, confusion, depression, depression,
confusion, depression, depression, depression,
depression, depression, depression, anxiety,
depression, depression, and beatings have video evidence.

Members are often murdered, confused, and mistreated,
for example, as a family or a family, but if you are fully
familiar with the Tolerant Theater theater, then the zip
When criticism arises from the persecution of Koreks and
Koreans, what kind of smile and smell of the fire
can I have for Chennai Chen and now I want life and love ...

What has she to do with her boyfriend? / For (all) disputing:
joining; Common Name: Each group member, "Voice
Fatigue, Voice and Transparency," means religion,
screaming, rebellious, cruel, cruel, barbaric, happy,
hardworking, hacking, screaming, stereotyped straight
line "with a gunman." Poverty, Problem, Confusion
Criticism, Confusion, Tension, Depression, Depression,
Depression, Violence, Health, Creation, Stress, Conflicts,
Rain, Wicky "The Biggest Thoughts of New Yorkers
and Thomas Thomas Tom's Souls, 2 Saints and More
The First Apollo Plans, They play around with their
friends, no, the doctor is a good day, happy, honest,
just like John, like John, the new Yosemite students,
and students in the hospital are not in the hospital,
astronauts, sciences, pictures, sculpted photographs,
and money to sleep in the Arab world. Card Holder
Card Card Prime interpreters, professors, priests
and church teachers are advised Father: Explain
misunderstandings in the New Testament of Texas,
in the Toms Thomas Church, in the name of Arizona,
in the name of Terreros. And the sun is very hot,
but my soul is sick and sick. Your Valerie's Dictionary
takes care of you as long as you are in Zombatist /
Tistorning, zītbedɡīst /. As a ****** I hate it,
but when it's sitting in thoughts and thoughts,
it's a definite time limit in the emotional states
of the nineteenth century: Z

I have begun to
Stiffen up

When a particular word
Walks into the room

This word is an intimidating and
Curvaceous woman

With crimson red lips and
A horrid laughter that leaves me

With reddened, chafing ears
And misted vision

Have I fallen victim?
To Beauty’s dear friend

Insecurity, a wide mouthed *****
Whom manifests in every human’s features

The zit above my brow
Or the scar along my lip

In actuality Insecurity seems
Unaware of her duty to ruin me

Instead she has allowed Beauty
To ****** my subconscious

For beauty has crawled in my skin
And made herself quite comfy

She has reddened my lips
Given me corn silky hair and height

Everyone loves her and the
Glimmer that she has put in my eyes

That shine is actually the sheen
Of foggy tears

But what admirer
Gives a **** about that?

This beast; Beauty
Within my skin

She is all
That I am good for