Long Cheekbones Poems
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Her's is a wonderfully framed oval face
with startling attributes such as pouty mouth similar to Angelina Jolie...how pretty...
and eyebrows golden brownish snaking around to
make the windows of the soul all that more remarkable
with the golden tones hued with bluish tint-
cheekbones strong and prominent
articulate the facial structure so that the face
is a wonder to behold and this is the face
with all it's components
that could melt a thousand hearts.
The face of today has changed so
evolved over a thousand millenium
from a most prominent brow
to a softer
more refined structure-
herein lies the beauty of the ages
the ever evolving lips, cheekbones, and caressable
ears...
burned into memory
for all time.
Lyric By CayCay Jennings
My beautimous man is my favorite visual treat.
Times staring at him are times I often repeat.
His blond tendrils hang down, outside his do-rag,
and are curls my fingers just have to twirl and grab.
Fierce, piercing blue eyes allow his gaze to melt me,
happens all the time and never do I ever mind.
The rich pay surgeons for cheekbones my man has.
My knuckles sometimes trace each bones span.
He has such a good-looking nose, not big or small,
it’s a nose I frequently kiss on my tip toes.
Perfect lips motivate my own to seek his kiss.
They aren't thick or thin, but ideal sized bliss.
I’m mesmerized by his labor rustled arm muscles
that grow a need for my cheeks to muscle nuzzle.
My beautimous man said my vision needs to be checked
because no features of his do my eyes accurately detect.
He said his curls do hang down, but no hair is on his crown.
He took me to a mirror to see lines under his eyes clearer,
said his cheekbones are no longer sensual but skeletal,
his nose now nostril hair grows and rudely hair shows,
plus, his muscles have aged and are now sad sag designed.
I asked what word bits would he now hurl about his lips -
he pulled me close and said, ‘only kisses are on my lip script.’
We mint our saints in neon now,
Their cheekbones cut from screens and static,
Golden calves with fiber-optic veins,
Hoofed in convenience and applause.
They learn to glow before they live,
Learn to bleed without a wound.
Once, holiness arrived on fire—
A thorned voice cracking the ceiling of the skull.
Now it trickles through notifications,
Thin as milk diluted with promotion.
Even martyrs have brand managers.
Even wounds wear makeup.
I kneel before the altar of updates,
My thumbs in constant prayer,
Scrolling for a sign that still has teeth.
Every miracle is sponsored.
Every resurrection comes with terms,
Small print stitched into the shroud.
The dead are louder than the living.
We canonize in real time—
A tragedy, a candle, a trending hymn,
Then on to the next immaculate disaster.
Grief has learned to multitask.
Ash is archived.
Our saints no longer starve in deserts—
They starve in crowded rooms,
Feed on echoes, likes, the clean white crack
Of being witnessed without being known.
Their halos flicker in algorithmic weather,
Shorted by irrelevance.
I want the old ferocity back—
The kind that sears a name into bone,
That does not vanish after thirty days
Like an unrenewed subscription to sorrow.
I want a holiness that indicts me,
Not the soft-focus mercy of forgetting.
We write our sacred lives in disappearing ink,
Hagiographies that refresh and vanish—
Lives reduced to captions under flame.
We are all relics in plastic cases,
Handled without touch,
Venerated without trembling.
And God—if you are still here—
You must be exhausted by our mirrors,
By this choir of self-lit saints
Singing through glass.
Even you, I think, would crave
One unrecorded miracle.
She slipped into the single’s club,
where an assortment
of horny guys and lonely hearts had assembled.
Some were there hoping to find that "special" someone
and some had come to chase away the blues,
tinkling ice in cocktail glasses soon to be refilled.
Others, who might be labeled commitment phobic,
had simply come to case the place for an easy lay.
Swinging svelte, mini-skirted hips lasciviously,
she strutted over to the counter
on legs that looked their longest and most shapely
from being hoisted on high red heels.
Every pair of eyes was trained on her.
Some in the club gawked
with eyes that hid beneath mascara-painted lashes, flitting envy.
Others leered with pupils dilating lust
from ogling the two soft protrusions in her tight white turtleneck.
Then with pink champagne in hand,
the goddess turned and surveyed her audience,
most of whom by now had looked away.
One remained, mesmerized, with eyes riveted on her.
He quivered when she caught his gaze
and strolled over to where he sat.
As she approached, he marveled at her face -
the chiseled cheekbones strong and high,
the dark eyes, luminescent and immense,
and curiously, an upturned nose so delicate
it seemed almost too perfect,
like one acquired from a sculptor’s hands.
He gulped when she asked him for a dance,
and as he asked this intriguing lady’s name,
he wondered at the timbre of her voice,
so provocative and low as she tossed dark brown locks
and said seductively,
“My name is Lola. L-O-L-A , Lola.”
Inspired by an old song from the 70's and
used now for Skat's the Premiere Contest number 10 Poetry Contest
The traveler reeked of weariness,
His companion was Fatigue
Wear upon his clothes suggest
He'd come a million league.
Gaunt were eyes deep set and brown
Above his cheekbones high
His being was pure somnolence
And I heard his silent cry.
Hard roads had been his travel
The pains chiseled on his face
In lines of furrows on his brow
Permanently enlaced
Around I saw no motion there, then ...
His head began to rise
Finally he looked at me ...
Suffering in his eyes.
So quietly I attended
And with a heavy heart
I wanted so to speak to him ...
But knew not how to start
Within his labored breathing
He then began to speak
His words, when finally spoken
Were truthful and unique
His lips worked to form the words -
Then said; "My name is: Common Man,
I'm a father; I've worked hard;
' always done the best I can.
"The road's become uphill and steep with
Burdens I can't propel
I've tried to move on forward -
But, I stumbled here - and fell.
"There are others on me
Who so do depend
I must move on forward,
This mustn't be my end.
"Now I must reach out to you
'Cause before I've never failed
I'm turning now to you
'Fore on hardships I'm impaled".
A calloused hand then extended
Toward my outstretched hand
And I want to heed the call
For this Common Man.
But, Greed and Avarice have won
And assistance can't be lent -
Wall Street, you see, owns me now:
I'm Your Government.
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
I was walking around town,
Hunting for stick glue,
It's difficult to find these
Strange corona times.
I bumped into a woman
With high and chunky cheeks,
Gleaming like two halfmoons:
She seemed smiling
Underneath that mask: was she?
Are you smiling? I asked.
I have high cheekbones, she said.
I bought the glue, left the change;
She still seemed smiling
Beneath that mask,
I will have to go and let my eyes
Caress those cheeks again.
Adam was in sajda,
Most Gracious breathing His Spirit into him,
Adam forgot that he was the first in Paradise,
He wanted to be the first to eat the fruits:
He lept for the fruits
Before the Spirit Software Update was complete:
So much about haste and ingratitude.
Teach me, Almighty,
To be patient with Your grace and mercy:
Your judgments and decisions,
You give me only good;
And for whatever good You give me;
I am the first for it:
For You have never given it to another,
With You everything is new
Everyday like the rising sun
I was eleven
when someone said,
“You’d be prettier if your nose were straighter.”
And that day,
I became a construction site—
a body forever under renovation.
First went the mole above my lip,
then the shade of my skin—
not honey, not caramel—
but something called “#FFEDDB.”
I googled “aesthetic jawlines”
and practiced smiling like silence,
like pain tucked under high cheekbones.
I downloaded apps
that let me erase myself
pixel by pixel—
they never warned me
that every deletion was a funeral.
The girl I used to be
smelled of coconut oil and rebellion,
laughed too loudly,
had crooked teeth
but didn’t apologize for them.
Now she is buried
under contour lines and augmented lashes,
and no one visits her grave.
Not even me.
My mother wept once
when I sent her a filtered selfie.
“Whose face is this?” she whispered.
I did not have the courage
to answer:
It’s the face the world prefers.
Boys loved my avatar,
said I was “goddess-level pretty.”
I ghosted them
before they could meet my actual face—
a crime scene of pores and shame.
What’s the cost of beauty
when you no longer recognize
your own reflection?
When your mirror becomes
a foreign language
you forgot how to read?
I am tired.
Tired of being perfect in screenshots,
and invisible in real life.
Tired of deleting zits
when I should be deleting pain.
If I must be beautiful,
let me be beautiful in breaking.
Let my skin remember
how to feel without permission.
Let my face belong to me again—
even if it means
being ugly
to the world.
I woke trembling on the threshold of dawn
as dappled sunlight through my window shone
Upon my primed canvas there had been drawn
a masculine image with finely chiseled cheekbones
What virile fantasy had I born while in flight
for my hand to have created such a dashing face
In stippled darkness of my dream-filled night,
a handsome fantasy did I dare fondly embrace
His eyes stared in wonder; tantamount to my own
No angle shielded me from their deep penetration
I held my breath, then released a soft guttural moan
as his strong hand guided mine without hesitation
Warm colors defined muscular features I painted
His dark eyes were flecked with dustings of gold
Flushed with desire, in a warm blush I was tainted
when he faintly whispered, "To have and to hold"
My palette was awash in shades of crimson. Soiled
with streaks of scarlet were my hands and gown
My brush strokes lingered on his full lips as I toiled
imagining passion's kiss, in whose depth I would drown
I could not bear the thought of tearing myself away
On and on I painted where his gentle hands led
until finally wearied from hunger, upon my bed I lay
Unsated was a craving within me, a desire to be fed
With eyes closed, I hoped to dream of him once more,
of this man who had completely captivated my heart
Come, handsome stranger. Find me as you did before
I cannot endure life if we must live it in dreams apart
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.