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Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
September 18, 2013
146 pounds by ~learningtobefree puts a refreshing spin on the criticism we've all heard at least once in our lives.
Featured by Nichrysalis
Literature Text
my mother tells me that i should be ashamed
for dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,
that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.
my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skip
the lemonade and drink the water instead.
do you really need that?
her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.
she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mine
and i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means she
had half the character i do.
shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,
telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.
i shock her time and time again when i cram my corners into
every article of clothing i selected on my own.
how will you ever get married?
& i wish i could tell her how boys have seen me naked
in the emotional sense of the word, how they have found
truth and honor ready to burst from my so-called "fat rolls."
she will never know that i am a garden with an unlocked gate
and that each of my visitors plants a flower before leaving.
i invite people in with the gleam in my eyes
and the way i bend language, so mother:
i am sorry that the width of my gut is not to your liking.
my suitcase of memories may be overweight in your eyes,
but within me lies every story i have ever been told.
i am holding every DNA strand that has ever coincided with mine.
it's as if i'm bearing the child of my own set of paradigms and you
are the poet not ready to write an apology.
it's okay, i'll do it for the both of us:
i am sorry for treating my body like a canvas meant to shed its paint.
i have learned to love my ink stains.
for dipping my baby carrots in salad dressing,
that my food doesn't need the salt i sprinkle on it.
my afternoon tea doesn't need any sugar, skip
the lemonade and drink the water instead.
do you really need that?
her sharp tone echoes like military orders in the face of combat.
she tells me that at my age, her jean size was half of mine
and i resist the urge to tell her that maybe that means she
had half the character i do.
shopping with her, she butts heads with a body-image complex,
telling me to quit fooling myself and pick the next size up.
i shock her time and time again when i cram my corners into
every article of clothing i selected on my own.
how will you ever get married?
& i wish i could tell her how boys have seen me naked
in the emotional sense of the word, how they have found
truth and honor ready to burst from my so-called "fat rolls."
she will never know that i am a garden with an unlocked gate
and that each of my visitors plants a flower before leaving.
i invite people in with the gleam in my eyes
and the way i bend language, so mother:
i am sorry that the width of my gut is not to your liking.
my suitcase of memories may be overweight in your eyes,
but within me lies every story i have ever been told.
i am holding every DNA strand that has ever coincided with mine.
it's as if i'm bearing the child of my own set of paradigms and you
are the poet not ready to write an apology.
it's okay, i'll do it for the both of us:
i am sorry for treating my body like a canvas meant to shed its paint.
i have learned to love my ink stains.
Literature
fat
i am not handsome, but i am endearing
and wearing clothes to cover my indecent
flesh and unhealthy habits i will charm you
with witty jokes, sarcasm, and a surprising intellect;
because, who would think I’d be social
and approachable, smart, and charming
despite being fat, and unattractive?
considering the question
i dared to undress and see my body
for the first time in weeks
-sagging belly, and a full stomach ,
fat breasts, stretch marks,
and my manhood asleep
as if it were impotent
and quiet.
people compliment my shirts,
or my beard’s red tint
but never my smile,
and rarely my eyes.
sometimes i am cute,
and i’m
Literature
I'm Such An Insecure Diaperbaby That I Passive-Agg
I always wanted to be that girl.
Pretty, clever, friendly.
Everywhere she goes, she has a big smile.
Everyone loves her.
Clear white skin.
Sporty, long blonde curls,
And flawless blue eyes.
She's a princess.
Confident, loves her true love.
Everything is easy for her.
And I remember when I was young,
With darkening hair,
Tripping on the stair,
I can remember dressing in pink,
Trying to please everyone.
Because I needed to be that girl.
The devil refused my soul.
I would cry at night and say,
'Princess, princess, deep inside.'
'Come to me on a turning tide,'
'And let me be you.'
Wasted days trying to be that cool kid.
Chase
Literature
Selfish Suicide
"People who kill themselves are selfish."
Well, darling, let me tell you a story,
A story all too true.
A daughter who became a wife, a wife who became a mother.
A mother of three girls...
One just above the age of a toddler,
One at the age of twelve,
And one entering the life of a married adult.
Now, the youngest girl was watching television,
And the oldest at the neighbor's home.
The twelve year old daughter sat at a computer with her closest friend,
When something terrifying happened.
Her mother was in the kitchen, coughing.
The daughter, although unable to see her mother, only could imagine the situation.
The mother walked calmly p
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irrelevant, but i was eating the aforementioned baby carrots when i wrote this
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beautifully written