She's so perfect, thin and tall,
She's so perfect, feet so small.
Her hair so long, and lashes too,
As if they’ve all been stuck with glue.
Her lips so full, her cheekbones high,
Every curve precise, no flaw to spy.
Her nails so long, sharp as a knife,
Polished to shine, the height of life.
She's so perfect… or is she?
That plastic smile won’t let her be.
A factory doll behind those eyes,
Every detail copied, her soul disguised.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I hold what you cannot~
the tremor of a laugh half-caught,
sunset’s blush on cheekbones,
the ghost of hands now gone.
I am both jail and shrine:
edges gilded, corners sharp,
a border you impose
on light that once was free.
You dust me, shift me,
hang me crooked, straighten me again~
as if my weight could anchor
what your heart has lost.
And when you pause,
trace the glass with fingertips,
you’re not remembering.
You’re asking the photo
to remember you.
I WEAR IT, LIKE I MEAN IT
Brim dipped low enough
to make you look twice
high enough to let you
catch the heat in my eyes
This isn't decoration, its declaration.
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I heart it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it just like, I like it.
The Brim traces shadows down my cheekbones
across my mouth, resting like it knows it's framing temptation
My posture deepens, My voice lowers
My walk slows into something deliberate
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I like it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it like just like, I like it.
You really dont know, you haven't been told
being unforgettable is not the goal. Please hear me, queens
I must speak bold. Sexy isn't noise, Sexy is control.
So when I step into the room, uplifting the gloom.
hat angled, confidence charged
understand, I didn't come to be noticed
I came to be remembered.
I wear it like I mean it
I wear like I heart it
I swag it out, add my sauce, and wear it like just like, I like it.
There is something that is almost love
The artist's call to capture an existence, symmetrical and pure.
It is magnetic and yearning
prying open my chest cavity and rearranging the vital organs to make a home for itself.
I almost love him.
I do not; it is but a trick of the light falling across his cheekbones
A muse that sculptors would've envied
Yet my heart quickens, seduced by the imperative to interpret such beauty
I am not a moth to a flame
I am a muralist to a whitewashed wall
A composer in a quiet room
A sonnetist to a blank page
but then the moment fractures, its fragile potentials
puddling back into reality once more.
Faux lashes, little arrows to the heart.
Cradling her sternum, bleeding so kindly.
Love knows where to aim.
I'd tell you I'd run marathons, only for my breathing to become an enclosure.
I'd tell you of the wild things in my head and you'd laugh and say "my home is not a quiet place for rampage."
I'd respond, only with frowning eyes, ears perked for an apology from the mouth that hurts.
While you'd stay empty hearted, pouring it down the drain.
I apply lipstick to chapped lips, rubbing blush into the cheekbones of the girl of the year.
You can spot her eyes in the many who gaze.
They still taste of her, reek of her perfumed haze.
And yet as girl of the year, no man could love a woman so ablaze.
I like wearing makeup in the way that I do it
I like my big eyeliner, my colourful eyelids
My cheeks covered in a heavy layer of blush
A small little highlighter heart on the tip of my nose
And a shiny spot right on my angel kiss
A eyeliner drawing of a heart or a bee
Sometimes a star on the freckle by my eye
Colours of eyeshadow that match my fun earrings
Maybe my outfit, and maybe my shoes
I hate wearing makeup in the way of my peers
Skinny sharp eyeliner, tan or beige eyelids
Face covered in a layer of foundation, concealer, and bronzer
Highlight on only ever cheekbones
And of course the bridge of the nose
No cute little heart right by their eye
No colours to match with, they just wear gold earrings
Not to say that their makeup isn’t gorgeous
It suits them quite well although to me it's boring
They are happy with their makeup and that's all that really matters
But I wonder what they would do without societal pressures
her sharpened cheekbone
cutting the blustering wind
majestically
The wood was perfect.
Hammer in hand, he toiled.
Sweat trickled down his neck.
Her face was chiselled,
A perfect portrait:
The hawk-like nose,
The high cheekbones,
The wide brow.
But not her flaring eyes.
They defied him.
In exasperation, he threw the lamp,
His only source of light,
And watched the wood burn.
In the deserted cabin.
In a wooded glen forlorn,
When the fire subsided
They found his body
Long dead, carbonised and cold.
And a piece of chiselled wood
Charred and worthless.
originally written in 10/4/2016
We had heard of the Queen of Merryland for weeks and weeks.
Everyone wanted to see her, our imagination in high rising peaks.
She came in with an entourage, and we stopped being excited.
She looked persnickety, pinched, angry cheekbones highlighted.
How can she be the Queen of Merryland? My friend swiftly asked me.
Look at her standoffish-ness, which frankly, any dumbbell can see.
I have one idea, I said, it is the one I think which you will have to agree.
She was born into it, the daughter of a King who was not at all merry.
I may not have a Hollywood body
Or Hollywood hair
A Hollywood smile
Or a Hollywood stare.
I may not have Hollywood lips
Or be Hollywood thin
Or have Hollywood cheekbones
And Hollywood skin.
I may not have a Hollywood house
Or a Hollywood garden
A Hollywood room
Or a Hollywood fountain.
Hollywood friends
Or Hollywood parents
Hollywood money
Or a Hollywood Terrance.
The yellow neon sign casted a glow upon his chiselled cheekbones as the bustling sounds of a city that never slept droned on.
He carried his troubles with him, like a worn out cloak, weighing him down in his every step. His mind was entwined in a thorny thicket.
He has been haunted and bewildered since his introduction to her in a smoky speakeasy.
She was a siren shadow amongst strangers of the night, whispering his name in the breeze, intoxicating his psyche with a tempestuous flame.
She entangled him in a perilous dance, playing a game of chance.
Their encounters were like unbridled wildfires. She captivated him, consuming his soul with her potent allure. He felt engulfed, delicate as a feather in a storm, swept away by her force.
However he was a moth enticed by a relentless flame, she incinerated his dreams and made him feel hopeless. In the end, he succumbed to the hounds of disassociated reality.
His story concluded in tragedy, leaving his loved ones cries to echo through the empty streets of a heartless city.
As he sat unaccompanied I saw no ring on his finger
Trouble in paradise perhaps
Lines at the edges of his eyes which still sparkled
the same brilliant blue as before
his cheekbones a bit more prominent than previously
his chin somewhat sharper
the baby face faded
replaced by a rather wizened visage
but equally enthralling
His enchanting smile remained unchanged
though it felt forced for the crowd and the cameras
Much can happen in only a year
A mask may slip revealing pretense
another's true motivations made clear
which might explain the unadorned digit
he was making no effort to hide from view
Maybe he knew
I’d notice
Teenage acne scarring
put an end
to your sojourn
your eyes as beautiful as dawn
glacial cheekbones
the shifting sands
of frozen time relieved
to the demure of wisdom
now realised
Weak and tired I fall on rough cobbled stones.
Blood oozed down my face across my cheekbones.
My knees are bruised and pain spreads from my brain,
The wooden bar hurt my back again.
Man must learn as I accept my bad fall.
The time must come for you to confess all.
I fall but sinless I still bear your sins,
Get up, repent and a new life begins.
Still, I suffer as lashes hit my back,
For soldiers hate and like a wolfish pack
They just wish me to arrive up on the hill
Whilst Pharisaic zealots curse me ill.
Yet I speak not one sole word nor complain.
I suffer pain and pray all are not in vain.
Sturdy hands roughly urge and lift me up.
Gives me my cross, and I drink my bitter cup.
I came to save humanity from hell,
That I might see you all in Heaven dwell.
Haltingly I trudge on the cobbled rocks,
Die on a cross. O happy paradox.
I hope by the time I’m 80
I’d have written a million notes to you
Pieces I’d read to myself in secret
And feel the passion fan my youth to flames
Septuagenarian
I hope to your features, I’m no alien
I hope your body still yells my name
I hope your fire never stops coursing my veins
Even at sixty
Still kiss me as you did at sixteen
And that you caress my wrinkles
Like you did my cheekbones.
And at fifty
I hope you keep singing me serenades
Your breath on my face
As you contort into complex shapes
May we be together at forty
With three kids off to college
While we dread the silence
We had claimed we missed
I hope to love you even more at thirty
Through midlife crisis and our growing family
To fulfil your cravings
While you cradle my babies
And as we swear the oath in the dusk of your twenties
In your father’s tiny lawn, where he swears you were conceived
I hope you can clearly see
That I’m nothing if you don’t love me.
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