I Think

I think
Therefore I am
But I think
About the am
That I have become
And wonder if
Perhaps
Maybe
Just a little
This am
That I am
Is not the am
I have always been looking for.
I think
Therefore I am
But this am
Does not really think
Not the way am
Should think
In this world
Of poisonous
Splashtastic
Aesthetic
Trends
That still the spotlight
And overshadow
The simplicity
Of beauty
Stripped back
And bare
Plain as can be
A canvas–appreciated
No need to be created.
I think
Must think
And break
Away from this
Suffocating existence
Of trend
After trend
Of fashion
Over
style
And yet…
I am one
Who cannot run away
From this decorating phase
Who itches to change
And beautify
What is…
Beauty
As is.
I think
Therefore I am
When I can bear
To strip away
From the mainstream flows
Of peacocks
And roosters
Vibrant and beautiful…
And appreciate
The simple
Gentle
Plain beauty
Of basic white.

(Sorry guys I disappeared! You know I’ve been reading over some of my old poetry and truly, I love them a lot more than the ones I write now. They say ‘writing is a way of knowing’ (quoted from Gloria Park an academic in language studies who quoted from a man called Ivanic I believe) and right now I think I’m desperately clinging on to the thoughts I had in this poem: Voices of Yesterday at the same time, I think I’m just evolving. What do you think? I’ve been through some roughish patches and life’s gotten busy and even though I want to express something, I think…I just need the time to think. I miss the dreams of my older poems oh wow there’s a title for another poem! But will it work? Haha thanks again for dropping by for a read! )

Quote #179

From Amy Bloom…

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.”

[N.B.] I don’t need to explain why this is an important quote!  

Beauty Is Relative

I look at this sentence

“She is the most gorgeous of all”

And think what an overstatement that is,

That is something only in your opinion,

And I hardly share it at all,

Don’t include me in your thinking,

That this girl is the most gorgeous of all

Because really,

What is ‘gorgeous’?

What is ‘beauty’?

It is within the shape of every brow

Thick or thin,

In the lips, narrow and wide,

In cheeks,

High, low or fat,

In eyes,

Big and bright,

Small and intelligent,

Curious and brave.

What is ‘pretty’?

What is ‘attractive’?

That is which resides in the shape,

And size, and temperament

Of you and I,

Tall, thin, thick, petite,

What does it mean to be…

Someone beautiful?

Someone ugly?

Isn’t it all just relative?

The way we think?

The way I see it,

We are all someone ‘gorgeous’

A ‘beauty’ to those who matter,

Someone ‘pretty’ and ‘attractive’

No matter what imperfections

Are perceived as ‘ugly’.

So don’t include me in your thinking

That that girl is ‘gorgeous’

For though she might be

To me,

There is probably someone I think

Who is more gorgeous than that,

Even if I am the only one who thinks so,

Isn’t that all that matters to me?

Beauty is relative,

Face and otherwise,

For we cannot all be

The imaginary,

Versatile

Definition of ‘perfection’,

Beauty, after all, is merely ‘relative’.

Brighter Than The Sun.

She shone brighter than the sun,

A silhouette, black,

Against a halo of white,

Blindingly bright light.

I looked for her,

Within a sea of wandering feet,

But her trailing,

Long, beautiful silky hair,

Is the only memory left in her wake,

Teasing those who watched her leave.

She was unbreakable,

A diamond jewel,

Rough, uncarved,

Unpolishable.

She is the most desirable,

Unattainable to the lust,

And burn of first sight attraction,

Of instantaneous infatuation,

And promises of ‘I love you forever’.

Dancing in the light of this lust,

She is the gold of the eyes of dawn,

Pure and innocent,

Beauty and precious,

Only the kind and gentle,

Retribution granted and those who have pledged,

Their utmost honesty,

A fate unknown,

To the ones they cherish,

Until they die.

She was too kind,

She bled like ink on prime parchment paper,

Seeping from her gentle body,

Into the carpet,

Spreading like poison

And wildfire.

She was brighter than the sun,

With a love

That exceeded all others,

Blooming bright,

Flowering forever,

Until the end of time.

She is a spectre,

Of the next,

Too kind,

Too genuine,

Too beautiful,

Brighter than the sun girl.

I watch her fade away,

Watching over the next girl,

Sharing her love,

So far from me,

I can’t catch her beauty,

Because she’s brighter than the sun,

Uncatchable by my human hands.

The Red Fish On The Mantel:

The red fish

Sat on the mantel piece,

A gift from husband to wife.

It has gold fins,

And big red eyes,

With red-gold scales,

On all sides.

The wife placed it facing the couch,

So that she could gaze

And admire

It’s red-gold beauty.

She had a penchant

For pretty

Beautiful things,

A penchant that was

Not limited to

Just objects and clothes.

One warm autumn night,

While the husband was away,

The wife comes out of,

Her wifely clothes,

To play with pretty,

Boys and pretty toys.

She’s a beautiful woman,

Who deserves beautiful things,

But a man whose loves her,

Deserves a little more.

Whether it’s despicable,

What he does,

When he’s away,

Watching

His wife’s betrayal,

While it’s in play.

His head falls,

Cupped in his hands,

As he tries to comtemplate,

His worst mistake.

But he can’t see,

What he did wrong,

If he had done anything wrong,

To her.

And he stands,

And throws,

In menacing anger,

The remote.

When he returns home,

She thinks nothing has changed,

And for a moment,

He thinks so too.

She doesn’t do anything,

Out of place,

She doesn’t around him,

As though she should be cautious,

She just leans up and kisses his cheek,

With all her love and warmth,

Just like always.

It had never seemed so bleak,

His beautiful, perfect marriage.

He should have realised,

That his wife,

Loved him for his beauty,

And because he gave her beautiful things,

Like the fish on the mantel,

Red,

Red-gold,

Golden.

To her,

He gives her one last gift,

Before leaving a sheaf of papers,

Lying on the dining room table,

For her to find.

He was not really hurt,

Just sad that

She was too fickle.

The next time he falls in love,

He hopes that,

He won’t need to buy

And give,

A fish that is red-gold,

With big,

Red eyes.

Mr Cool.

Mr Cool walks,

Like he doesn’t have,

A single care in the world.

It’s delectable,

Enticing,

The way he can simply be,

Mr  Cool.

Imagine a guy,

Who can wear sunglasses,

And rake his hair back,

With an unbutton suit,

And a loose tie,

It’s kind of entrancing,

Knowing that he can do,

He can get,

He can have,

Whatever he wants.

And sure,

He’s something to look at,

The apple of a photographer’s eye.

But who is he,

Next to someone else.

Who is he,

Compared to someone,

Who wears a beanie,

And has slightly shaggy hair,

With a who gives-a-crap attitude,

To their clothes?

I’d like a Mr Cool,

With a self aware attitude,

It’d be nice,

If he was next to me.

I’d feel cool too.

But then,

I think,

Is he kinder than the average guy?

Maybe.

Is he smarter than a geeky guy?

Maybe.

Is he the one to make my heart pound?

Probably not.

If he was,

Then he would look cool,

Walking beside me,

And

Not just cool,

His look would fit mine.

Even if I think,

I’m not half bad,

Somehow,

Mr Cool,

Is just a guy,

In whatever clothes,

Who can stand by me,

And look like a match.

He wouldn’t care as much about

Everyone else,

But rather,

He’d look at me,

And say,

“You’re gorgeous”

To make me blush.

But even so,

They all stare,

Not just at him,

But at me too,

Because I know,

Next to this guy,

Who was once an ordinary guy,

Turned into Mr Cool,

I am Beautiful,

Just right for Mr Cool.

Expression Of A Cold Hearted Man.

He never smiled.
I painted his face, elegant in angles, enticing to behold.
He does not look at me.
I grace the canvas with his shadows.
He is the epitome of expressionless.
I paint the sadness in his eyes.
His clothes are impeccable.
I see a corporate business man.
He is a model.
I want to capture him.
I want him to love his work.
I want him to see the artist.
He is a model.
I paint his clothes.
He has long lashes.
I paint him leaning back, eyes partly closed.
He does not have a heart.
I can only see colours.
He thinks he’s alone.
I can’t see anything but a crowd of shadows.
He has someone he loves.
I wonder if he will open his heart.
He stands and thanks me.
He still has no expression on his face, but,
He is not longer just a model.

Death.

Source: Muroya.deviantart.com

He haunts the death infested places collecting the souls from each house with a flick of his wrist.  His cloak sweeps the ground and billows behind him.  Everyone fears him.  Only the old who are near death, welcome him.  Maybe even some of the young, though they’re afraid.  He takes those we love, hate, envy.  He deprives us of our desired, whether we have lost the moment of confession, friendship or revenge.  He is merciless, heartless, cruel.

But it is inevitable.  No matter how many bouquets of all kinds of flowers are given at a wedding, placed on a grave, given as a token of love; life is to be lived, and not regretted so that when the day comes, they can go on, happy.   But always, in the end, Death always comes.  He is indiscriminate yet gentle as he takes the souls.  All anyone can do is remember their loved ones, hated ones, envied ones.  Cherish what was lost, and go on with their lives so that they too can join Death when the time comes.  So that they have nothing to regret.  Because he always comes in the end.  It is inevitable.

Ice.

English: Ice Sculpture, Natural History Museum...

English: Ice Sculpture, Natural History Museum, London SW7 One of the ice sculptures at the Natural History Museum London Ice Sculpting Festival. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

 

It’s cold and hard, wet when in the sun and frosty when in the shade.  It breathes mist and flourishes with its own kind.  It’s immovable, solid, and unmalleable.  And yet with my hands, I chip away at it, cutting it, slicing it, making it my own.  And with my hands, something beautiful is born.

 

When Summer Comes.

The air becomes warmer, the sky turns fluffy white and blue.  The mornings are brighter and the first thing you think is, ‘I think I’ll get up early.’  There is nothing dark and heavy and you don’t want your blankets to wrap around you tightly.  You just want to be outside.  That’s when summer comes.

And it comes in all its glory, bringing is hot circle of fire arcing across the sky, heating and lighting the world, scaring away the shadows.  There is no sign of wind or rain.  There is not a single jacket or jumper in sight.  Just blazing pale flesh and dazzling smiles with sunglass covered eyes.

Beach brollies, beach trips, trips to the sea.  Tanning and beach volleyball, relaxing by the sea.  On the beach with friends, family and random strangers you vacation.  It’s a holiday.  It’s a summer holiday, no worries or stresses at all.  You feel the warm sea water against your legs. You smile at no one particular.

You rejoice, thriving in the summer sun, basking in its beauty, with all heart and soul.  It is the light against dark, lighting your day.  No amount of office work or uni work or school work can dampen your happiness.  You stare out the window and forget about the rest.  Summer is here, you know.

Clouds.

She held a camera in her hand, but her eyes drifted to the sky.  Such natural wonder in all shapes and sizes, from every point in the day, it was a photographer’s dream.  She sighed.  How could she capture this beauty?  Clouds, so carefree.  It’s abstractness too immense to capture, but still she would try.

 

Pimples.

The bane of every adolescent.  They sprout small and big, ugly and near invisible.  They are the symbol of puberty.  No matter the cleanser or the cream, they come, and they come, sprouting and spreading and transforming and scarring and changing until… they fade.  They fade and disappear leaving behind that face of an adult.

Like a diamond. ‘The diamond of truth’ Part One.

Felicity couldn’t move.  Her whole body was frozen like ice.  She felt like she was ice.  The king’s pretty little ice statue.  A statue that wasn’t even a statue.  She tried to wriggle her fingers.  Nothing.  She tried to wriggle her toes.  Nothing again.  Frustrated with her immobility, she tried one last time, and wriggled her nose.

It moved, she could move!  Her nose moved, with the freedom the rest of her body lacked.  She was ecstatic.  Her body tingled with pleasure as she wriggled her nose more.  She didn’t care if she looked like she was going crossed-eyed, not when the focal of her sight was the simple pleasure of watching her little nose wriggled.  Wriggle, wriggle, wriggle.  She could totally rap to this. Wriggle, wriggle, wriggle.  Wriggle.  Wriggle, wriggle, wriggle, wrrrigggle.  Haha!  No beastly king could best her if her nose wriggled!

“Stop that infernal wriggling!”  Fel squealed within her frozen form.  The sound muffled, reflected the height of the octave in which it sounded.

It was Gevird.  She scowled, again the sound was muffled by her annoying armour.  Stupid armour.  So she resorted to glaring at the menacing captain of the guard.  If it weren’t for her, he wouldn’t be the captain!

There was not a day in which she regretted her rash action.  She should have left him to die on the streets where the horses pooped and the carts trundled without any concern for their surroundings.   She didn’t have to help him off the cobbled ground into her safe house.  But she did.  She didn’t have to give him some food.  But she did.  She didn’t have to do anything because she had her own brothers and sisters to look after.  But she fricking did!

“What do you want?”  She said.  Though the question was muffled.

He cocked his head.  They were in the King’s statue room where he put his punished subjects.  All around Fel were the people she had grown up with, known or admired from afar, maybe even despised from afar.  Each and every one of them had been put here because they had done the King a wrong.  It was a blasted room.  There was no music; you’d think the King would at least treat his prisoners to some privileges.  But no.  The King was no kindly warden when it came to his frozen subjects.  No, the King was cruel and unforgiving.  Anyway, he didn’t think his prisoners would live.  But their eyes, and noses (as she learned), were not covered by the magical prison, so she could still live.  The others could not.  Some were pardoned, but most were frozen for eternity.   It wasn’t that she was immune to the magical ice, but because of who she was.  If Gevird hadn’t betrayed her, then she wouldn’t be here.  But he had.  And she was.

Too bad her presence would be missed soon enough.  She was exceedingly patient for a person where patience was generally considered wanting.  But when the moment was worth it, Fel had all the patience in the world.  And right now.  She wanted Gevrid to know just how patient she could be.

Now that her nose was capable of free movement she knew the rest of her body would slow respond within its shell.

All the while Gevrid stood there.  Why couldn’t he just go away?

As he watched her he slowly lost his sharp demeanour.  All the hard edges which had been there a moment ago and bled together to leave behind a softer solider.  What Fel meant, was a softer, liar of a solider.  But whatever right?  She was stuck and he was not.

Fel could feel the diamond in her boot.  It was too big to unmissed but her little spell certainly drew her captives, and the King’s most trusted me to assume there was nothing in her boot.  It was a shame really, since it was so big, it was obvious.  But Fel had always been more capable than the King and his men put together.

They laughed as the King’s magic washed over her.  But she was the one having the last laugh.  She had stood exactly still.  She didn’t need to run.  She wanted the King’s ice on her.  So far she was his biggest traitor, but so what?  That was all part of the plan.  He’d put her here to die and therefore, forgotten.  But Fel wasn’t going to die, nor was she going to be forgotten.

She could already hear the voices in the diamond.  Dallas and her girls were coming.  As she watched Gevrid watching her she smirked.  Her skin already heating like the fire in a dragon’s breast.  Gevrid was wrong.  He couldn’t stop her.  Not even his last words to her when he took out would save him now.

The water filled her shoes, drenched her skirt and sizzled in the small space between the ice and her.  Like the ice, this fire was no ordinary fire.  It burned with a heart of magic.  Fel had always been more powerful than her father.  Too bad his ego was bigger than his brain.

“Sorry Gevrid,” she said as the ice turned to water pooling around her feet leaving her skin dry.  “But the King is not going to keep me now.”

The shock was evident.  And Fel knew better than to miss the opportunity to run.  But as much as she despised Gevrid for tricking her, she would not let him suffer for something that was not his fault.  Because well, Fel knew, he was just the King’s man.

She called the diamond to her hand, the magic that swirled within familiarly warm.  She cupped the diamond, big for its kind, but small in her fist and pressed it to his forehead, pushing him down.  The energy ripped from her soul, ripping her close to pieces as she called on the magic of the world to transform the stoic guard.

Dallas burst from above her head just as she finished up.  Dallas caught her and drew her away to the litter they’d brought for the getaway.

Neither of the two women looked back at the kneeling soldier, his face expressionless, but handsomely carved.  Amongst the ice statues, he was nearly indistinguishable.

But he was diamond, not ice.

To Be An Angel.

She unfurled her wings.  They fluttered and pulsed in the air above the earth.  Her gleaming beauty hidden in the bright sunlight.  If anyone looked up, they would think she were a trick of the eye.   She bristled as she dived down to the out of control car.  The car swerved safely away.  Miracles happen.

Faerie.

Faeries existed all around us.  I knew that.  Mum made sure I did.

She said, “stay away from the ring of toadstools that stand alone on the hillside. ”

“Don’t step inside it and count to three, spinning so that your skirts fly.”

“Don’t make a wish.”

“Don’t believe in it.”

“Don’t ever go by yourself.”

That’s what she said.  Those were the rules.  They were always the rules.  Maybe I thought they were bull.  Maybe I believed in them just a tiny bit.  But overall, I wanted to see the ring for myself.

“Oh come on Emma, this is what you wanted.”  I looked to my pretty but senseless friend.  Robyn Puca Lokianna was her name.  Or at least so she said.  I wondered if it was true.  Who had a name like that these days?

“Oh come on Emma,” she said, drawing me to her with her hand.  Her wide pretty grey eyes focussed only on me.  Just beyond the next meadow was the hill that mum warned me about.

“I don’t know Ro.”  My voice quivered unexpectedly.  Hardening myself, shaking away whatever fear it was that was holding me I looked at her.  “Mum said…”

“Pooh!  Screw your mum!  This is the twenty-first century Emma, not the fifteenth.  Like there are such things as faeries!”

Robyn was so convincing. Her argument made some sense, or at least that what my brain was agreeing with as it forced me to nod my head, however jerkily it may have seemed.

“Okay…I guess you’re right.”

“Yay!” She said gleefully jumping up and down clapping her hands.  “You won’t regret it!”

Somehow I doubted that.  The thing with Robyn is that well, she’s perfect.  I mean she’s not the hottest or the most beautiful girl at school, but she is pretty.  I always called it her ‘charm’, her ability to get people to listen to what she had to say.  Because believe me, they always listened.

One time she didn’t do the essay we had three weeks to do.  Later after she spoke to the teacher, she told me that she got an extension.  I believed her.  Even though I never saw her hand it in.

When we were small, a little boy fell of the monkey bars, Robyn was right beside him when he fell.  The teachers asked if anyone saw what happened, but no one did, even though we were right there.  All we knew was that the kid had been sitting cosily on the monkey bars talking to Robyn.  He also happened to be the guy I liked.  So I was jealous enough to imply that I might have seen Robyn do something.

But later when the teachers took Robyn away, she came back flouncing, her skirts flying like she was the happiest person in the world.

She stopped in front of my desk and just looked at me.  I didn’t like the look of sadness and defiance on her face.

“I thought we were friends Emma.”

“We are.”

“Then why?”

“Because you know why!”  I remember whispering harshly.  God I was only eight then.  Even so, I didn’t forget the blossoming amusement on her face.  She laughed then she asked if I could keep a secret as though we hadn’t argued at all.  Since I regretted telling on her I nodded, and she said, “People like listening to what I tell them.  Besides he wasn’t worth it!”

Maybe I looked horrified, maybe I looked like I didn’t know what I was hearing, but I knew something was not quite right.  I knew because the teachers never mentioned the little incident again.  Just like the guy in year nine English three years ago had a scared look on his face every time he saw either Robyn or I.

He’d tried to kiss me when I hadn’t wanted to be kissed.

Robyn had saved me.

It was a shame, I’d liked him too.  But turns out he didn’t like me as much as I thought he did.  He just wanted some action more than anything.  So he forced himself on me.

It was Robyn barrelling through the bedroom door like it wasn’t locked, crying, “touch her again and you’ll wish you never did.”

The thing is, to me, Robyn looked like Robyn when she was angry.  And I was so bloody grateful she’d come barrelling in.  But when I looked at him.  He looked terrified.  I was so sure he pissed his pants because I could smell urine in the room.

He never spoke to me after that.

Robyn pulled me through the meadow, not caring about any earthy potholes or my ankles for a matter.

“Robyn!  Slow down!  What’s your rush?”

“We have to hurry Em!  Being by the faerie ring when it’s not exactly noon will make this a pointless venture.”

“What’s so special about noon?”

“Noon is the faerie midnight.  The toadstools become a portal then.  They sparkle!”  Her eyes gleamed.  I didn’t like that gleam.  It frightened me.

Robyn was frightening sometimes when she was determined.

“There it is!”  I followed her pointing arm.  Yes, there is was, a solitary ring of toadstools.  It circled the hill top.  This ring of tiny red toadstools.

“Let’s stand inside.”

“Robyn!  No!”  I pulled my hand out of her grip at last.  “What about what mum said?  What about noon?”

“Oh come on.”

Robyn was reckless.  Mum was cautious.  And I, well, I was timid.  “But what happens if I forget one of mum’s rules?”

“I’ll make sure you don’t.”  She was already standing in the centre of the circle.  Her skirt billowed about her.

I shivered.  The sun had disappeared for a moment.  If we only stood in it for a moment, it should be okay, right?

“Your mum said never to go by yourself, right?”  She asked.  I nodded.  “Well you’re not alone.  I’m here.  I’ll keep you safe.”

Her smile was dazzling.  There was something about her words that made me believe everything she said.

“Okay then.”  I took her offered hand and stepped into the circle.

“Oh wow.”  Everything about the hilltop changed the moment I stepped in.  The light was brighter, the air was warmer, and the toadstools, the toadstools sparkled.

Horrified I tried to get out, my head was empty but for the fear.

“Robyn!”

But when I turned around, Robyn wasn’t there anymore.  Instead, a shining, inhuman figure stood outside the ring.  “I’m sorry Em.  But you should have listened to your mother.  Even if most of her rules were fiction.  You should have at least listen to the first rule.”

Just Beautiful.

She groaned with a final pleasing groan hauling herself over the ledge.  For a moment she lay there panting, exhausted before she stood, if a bit shakily, to look at the only view, the summit of a mountain could give her.   It was beautiful, and she’d come up here all on her own.  “Just Beautiful.”

Panorama.

We climbed to the top of the tower and looked at the panorama spreading around us.  His hand rest next to mine.  I felt my heart beat just a bit faster.  He asked me because he knew I wasn’t a coward.  If only that wasn’t the only reason.  “You’re wrong,” he said taking my hand.

The Stars.

The stars drift above me.  I feel so light underneath them, as though I am floating and not still firmly planted on the ground.  Such a vast open space above, the stars must be beautiful in space.  I wanted to be there, not here.  Looking at the stairs to the roof, I considered climbing them.