Learn more about other poetry terms
i'm afraid. it's a feeling i can't escape from — nothing i can turn a blind eye to, skip over, forget.
The face of racism Uses words to kill all that is good on earth, without glancing back at the damage It has the ability to claim countless lives in mere seconds, then continue on
I claim witness growing up, down a path left behind a mirage of some passing distance. I see now the blurr faces. A mask in craves something once wanted, more in need.
rough patches on skin, bumps around eyes, discoloration they look like little countries little cities live in my little countries, with little buildings and little homes
To smile well depressed is such a strange feelinglook to for help yet your external emotions are concealingalone once again
The face I see in the glass won't smile back at me, and I can't help but wonder why. I guess she isn't who she wants to be, and it always makes her cry. The water rushes down her cheek like a flood, salty and as thick as blood.
I look out of plane view At a mountain range anew They are so beautiful That words are to dull To describe the pull That they have on my soul
Exposing my face on Facebook, or tweeting my teeth on twitter. That is not who I am really.
Did you know an Elephant never forgets a face Once the creature catches a glimpse it can never forget and your face is one that I can never forget.
Oil perculates from the deep yellow skin, a false smile perfereates deep from within, the heart feels like this could be a sin, waiting for the alarm to go off so I could begin.
Hey I do not do this often but your beautiful and was hard to pass up, The dimples in her cheeks filled like waves of emotion
What is it that you see when you see me?
I think I am beautiful, In a different sort of way. I always keep them laughing, And they just want me to stay. My face is something of my own, One alike you'll never see.
A white porcelain doll, Is never hidden in fear, She is never covered in regret, But she has something I love, The power: To forget... No mind to consume her time, No passion to lust for,
I am white. Lineage? Eastern European. Religion?
she went in her room and shut the door
I dicern the uncomforting sensation to excavate the catacombs of my physiognomy. I exhibit my excavational tool, and begin to bore within the caves of my profile. The sensation is overwhelming, almost as if
What would you consider calm? Maybe a tropical palm Or a vibrant butterfly on an infant’s Sprouting hair Yet even a single tulip Amidst the life that’s bare Or a teeming cub
I woke up today with tears in my eyes. Walked down the hall, Mom asked what was wrong; I couldn't lie.. Mom held me close and whispered in my ear Words that still ring, loud and clear:
I was 13. Looking in the mirror, It never dawned to me why, Why the window between my teeth, The disproportionate nose, The “five-head”, Too sufficient for just a bang, Not brown
Your skin is smooth with the exception of the sutble that seems to be constantly growing on your face. I find a nook in your neck where I rest my hand to cradle your face. Your smile, my God, your smile.
You lay beside me Your arm rests upon your face You smile softly
Persona, the mind of the self, is perhaps what is least seen when we go to our daily bouts:
I looked at her I took a good long, long look at her At moments she was as pretty as the multi-colored sunset, waving goodbye as it faded it into the ocean
Flat on the floor Where the body is in constant dispute With its downward boundaries At the pinnacle of collapse The result By itself No questions in this mutual embrace A solid companion
When you see me you would think, There goes a strong young man. Never close to breaking him, He feels as much as a tin can. And if you asked me now, this is what I'd tell. I've never shed a tear
Everything has a face Just like my Brother’s old backpack Hanging in the closet with its snares and tares And every time I look At it seeing its entirety, places it’s gone, baggage it has carried
I'd rather see beauty in the flaws on the faces than have it all washed away washed away in the rain People are colors, not shades of grey, but colors combine to make grey anyway.
New faces bring new thunderstorms The smell of fresh rain on pavement shows change in the air The lightning flashes a bright sky for a split second The moment rips away as thunder claps the same old darkness back