She looked in the mirror at the enormous scar that now ran over her eyebrow and across her nose. It seemed for a moment, to mar her beauty, but then she stopped and stared a little harder at herself. A moment passed before she realized and came to know that it was not a blemish against her fine features, but rather an enhancement, for it showed the strength with which she fought to live, and the courage she had pulled upon to survive.
The soul can be blemished by the thorns of mortality.
How can a soul be saved with thorns all about?
It can’t.
It must live with the wounds, with naught to do but lay down and cry.
yeah, ive got a lot of those. doesnt help that i pick at them. i cant leave things alone. i suppose i could be much more attractive if id let the natural beauty shine through. but, then again, im human and we all have our nasty habits dont we.
she was just a blemish on this perfect world. she meant nothing, she was nothing. she was nothing but an ugly mark on this perfect world. no matter what the world did they couldn’t remove her. she was just as ugly as she made herself believe she was.
My record is pure and clean. It is without blemish. Well, mostly without blemish. There are a few blemish-like scratches in my record. Nothing that would cause a needle to skip though. So I figure that, as long as my music is fairly smooth, that’s good enough for me.
Imperfection. It’s what we’re all afraid of. Whether it be on pure, white skin or more abstract than that, our biggest fear is not being able to quench this thirst that we have to be absolutely everything. And, unfortunately, it’s pretty much impossible.
There was only one flaw. The paint chipping, just next to the volume knob. Other than that, it was long, shiny, black, the kind of guitar God would take to a show. Really blow them all away with an axe like that. So when her oil dark eyes found it, and she felt them at her back, sneering, like she didn’t even know how to play, she picked it off the shelf and plugged it the fuck in, and ripped out a Chuck Berry lick that made ’em cringe.
A blemish in my record was the first thing I could think of when I thought of my friend… I did my first bad deed, blemishing my perfect record. I had blemished everything I strived for… so what to I do now that all is lost? I still am okay, and I always will be. I love him either way, no matter what we did. <3
The blemish on her phone’s screen made her think of how it happened. She had just got dumped, and instead of burning herself, she burned that screen until she could barely see the message from him.
Boy, do I hate these. Lovely day comes along, and it’s ruined by a pimple. Everyone has felt the anger and disappointment. My first thought is always, “What do I do?” I never know how to handle it, however. Somehow, I panic to try and cover it up. How do I make it through the day with that stupid red thing taking over my face?
Boy, do I hate these. Lovely day comes along, and it’s ruined by a pimple. Everyone has felt the anger and disappointment. My first thought is always, “What do I do?” I never know how to handle it, however. Somehow, I panic to try and cover it up. How do I make it through the day with that stupid red thing taking over my face?
i hate having belmish’s! when i think of blemish’s i think of someone’s beautiful face with one little bump on it. i also think of a blemish on a piece of artwork. a small, little, mistake on something beautiful!!!
There was a mere blemish on her skin. One small smudge, a small chocolate-like stain, that lay across her left cheek like a tide trying to reach the shore. But it was this blemish that trapped her, and this blemish that made her unable to show the beauty that everyone else already saw.
blemishes were scattered across her back, coloring her pale skin a dark purplish bruise. she hid her beautiful, scarred face in the crook of her elbow, sepia-tone hair falling in a sleek curtain hiding her from the world. “i’m ugly,” she whispered quietly into the emptiness of the cold and unfeeling bathroom floor, sinking down onto bitterly cruel tiles. a constellation of scars marred her shoulders and her back, and she tucked her face between her knees.
We are all full of scars that we want to hide, blemishes on our soul. We have to let them go to truly be free. It’s what holds us back. Some of them are so deep that they fail to heal. They accumulate. And they hurt you. To expose them, would be exposing who you truly are. Do you really want that?
oh hey…just doing this now….im like. so upset. sorry for bitching. my life is fucked up right now. what a brotha needs is some good bud and a nice bed to smoke it in. lolllll ive written so little…bad night. i would explain but no time. theres never enough time…
my soul like my face, is full of blemishes I hate it. but I bet you’d love me I’m endearing and sexy if you don’t look too closely. my blemishes are what make me, well, me. I like that. I am unique and awesome. Then you realize how fucked up I am.
The blemish on the steering wheel shone red in the light of the sirens. The scratches on the sideview mirror were prominent. Matted clumps of hair dangling from a bruised, gashed scalp.
They first thought it had been a simple accident. Involving a phone, no less. But the phone hadn’t been a typical phone. It was a far more superior machine.
I’ve written once about this before. The morning sun lighting up the vast canvas before me, just itching to be drawn on. It illuminates with a light glow; what shall I draw today? Suddenly, and unfortunately, I slip on an ice cube, and my coffee goes sailing through the air toward the canvas. I sigh; as always, another ruined canvas. A simple blemish of black staining the blank canvas I was going to draw on…just like my life.
It bothered her to no end. She couldn’t stop picking at it. It was just close enough to her jaw to be in a weird spot that she could hardly reach, but not really get at. She spent a solid minute attempting to get rid of it. Then her mother slapped her hand away and scowled.
A blemish is an unappealing flaw on the face. You could also use the work in other situations, such as, there was a blemish on the finish of the newly redone dresser. We had received it from a lady we had evicted for not paying rent. It was, to our surprise, worth about $1800 when it was all redone.
Your face is unblemished,
but the makeup you wear
covers the scars you’ve
claimed through your battles
and the baggage you’ve carried
has weighted your shoulders to
a sad slump
and you finally stagger to your
knees from the pressure
of life
and that last second, your last second
will be spent wishing of a better ending
to your pathetic and exhausted
existence.
it’s what everyone else sees on the surface, but it’s what you see on your soul. And it spreads no matter what you do; and you can’t fight it. It stains you and becomes more than a blemish. It kind of hurts after a while. From all the scrubbing. Trying to be rid of it. But it’s you.
My entire face and body is covered in disasters
They call them blemishes,
but I see more than that.
Everything,
not just the actual blemishes,
are blemishes.
and problems
and ugliness
all wrapped up in the package of myself.
clear and unblemished, but that was the illusion, the mask. Things were never as the first appeared, and he was no exception. He was… innocent once. Innocent and pure and, and, and… what changed? He didn’t know. It was the Sleythtil. He thought. He never should have listened, never should have gone through with it. Now all he had was an illusion and the tattered remains of what could have been.
This blemish I can no longer hide. For you are here always dear blemish, ruining this first date, this photo, or this life? perhaps you are not a blemish at all. Have I turned you into a blemish when really you are just a simple nudge or helpful reminder. Could it be that I have decieved myself? Or maybe you have decieved yourself. Blemish. I’ll just cover you up.
She looked in the mirror at the enormous scar that now ran over her eyebrow and across her nose. It seemed for a moment, to mar her beauty, but then she stopped and stared a little harder at herself. A moment passed before she realized and came to know that it was not a blemish against her fine features, but rather an enhancement, for it showed the strength with which she fought to live, and the courage she had pulled upon to survive.
The soul can be blemished by the thorns of mortality.
How can a soul be saved with thorns all about?
It can’t.
It must live with the wounds, with naught to do but lay down and cry.
yeah, ive got a lot of those. doesnt help that i pick at them. i cant leave things alone. i suppose i could be much more attractive if id let the natural beauty shine through. but, then again, im human and we all have our nasty habits dont we.
That little speck of imperfection that separates our dreams from reality…
she was just a blemish on this perfect world. she meant nothing, she was nothing. she was nothing but an ugly mark on this perfect world. no matter what the world did they couldn’t remove her. she was just as ugly as she made herself believe she was.
My record is pure and clean. It is without blemish. Well, mostly without blemish. There are a few blemish-like scratches in my record. Nothing that would cause a needle to skip though. So I figure that, as long as my music is fairly smooth, that’s good enough for me.
Imperfection. It’s what we’re all afraid of. Whether it be on pure, white skin or more abstract than that, our biggest fear is not being able to quench this thirst that we have to be absolutely everything. And, unfortunately, it’s pretty much impossible.
“it’ll be ready in 4 hours. God, I’ll be dead in four hours!”
“What?!”
“Oh, did I say dead? I meant asleep. I’ll be asleep in four hours.”
There was only one flaw. The paint chipping, just next to the volume knob. Other than that, it was long, shiny, black, the kind of guitar God would take to a show. Really blow them all away with an axe like that. So when her oil dark eyes found it, and she felt them at her back, sneering, like she didn’t even know how to play, she picked it off the shelf and plugged it the fuck in, and ripped out a Chuck Berry lick that made ’em cringe.
A blemish in my record was the first thing I could think of when I thought of my friend… I did my first bad deed, blemishing my perfect record. I had blemished everything I strived for… so what to I do now that all is lost? I still am okay, and I always will be. I love him either way, no matter what we did. <3
The blemish on her phone’s screen made her think of how it happened. She had just got dumped, and instead of burning herself, she burned that screen until she could barely see the message from him.
Boy, do I hate these. Lovely day comes along, and it’s ruined by a pimple. Everyone has felt the anger and disappointment. My first thought is always, “What do I do?” I never know how to handle it, however. Somehow, I panic to try and cover it up. How do I make it through the day with that stupid red thing taking over my face?
Boy, do I hate these. Lovely day comes along, and it’s ruined by a pimple. Everyone has felt the anger and disappointment. My first thought is always, “What do I do?” I never know how to handle it, however. Somehow, I panic to try and cover it up. How do I make it through the day with that stupid red thing taking over my face?
i hate having belmish’s! when i think of blemish’s i think of someone’s beautiful face with one little bump on it. i also think of a blemish on a piece of artwork. a small, little, mistake on something beautiful!!!
Silver scars brand my skin,
to some they are blemishes,
imperfections,
mishaps.
They are a map of my memories,
of the who what where and whens.
Scars are stories,
some tell of mistakes made,
others of adventures that took detours.
Each silver line reminds me,
of who I am.
There was a mere blemish on her skin. One small smudge, a small chocolate-like stain, that lay across her left cheek like a tide trying to reach the shore. But it was this blemish that trapped her, and this blemish that made her unable to show the beauty that everyone else already saw.
Nightfall’s deep pulse
Quickens
Under mottled plain trees
Strolling, arms linked
By winking lights
Honeyed wine
And stardust
Two rivers
Forever deep
Finding the other
Quietly runs
To an uncharted ocean
blemishes were scattered across her back, coloring her pale skin a dark purplish bruise. she hid her beautiful, scarred face in the crook of her elbow, sepia-tone hair falling in a sleek curtain hiding her from the world. “i’m ugly,” she whispered quietly into the emptiness of the cold and unfeeling bathroom floor, sinking down onto bitterly cruel tiles. a constellation of scars marred her shoulders and her back, and she tucked her face between her knees.
Her dreams are without blemish.
Just let her be.
Let her find reality on her own; don’t take away her childhood.
We are all full of scars that we want to hide, blemishes on our soul. We have to let them go to truly be free. It’s what holds us back. Some of them are so deep that they fail to heal. They accumulate. And they hurt you. To expose them, would be exposing who you truly are. Do you really want that?
oh hey…just doing this now….im like. so upset. sorry for bitching. my life is fucked up right now. what a brotha needs is some good bud and a nice bed to smoke it in. lolllll ive written so little…bad night. i would explain but no time. theres never enough time…
my soul like my face, is full of blemishes I hate it. but I bet you’d love me I’m endearing and sexy if you don’t look too closely. my blemishes are what make me, well, me. I like that. I am unique and awesome. Then you realize how fucked up I am.
The blemish on the steering wheel shone red in the light of the sirens. The scratches on the sideview mirror were prominent. Matted clumps of hair dangling from a bruised, gashed scalp.
They first thought it had been a simple accident. Involving a phone, no less. But the phone hadn’t been a typical phone. It was a far more superior machine.
I’ve written once about this before. The morning sun lighting up the vast canvas before me, just itching to be drawn on. It illuminates with a light glow; what shall I draw today? Suddenly, and unfortunately, I slip on an ice cube, and my coffee goes sailing through the air toward the canvas. I sigh; as always, another ruined canvas. A simple blemish of black staining the blank canvas I was going to draw on…just like my life.
lets not go quietly
dont let them bother me
oh come back
dont let them see my face
ill never be habebe i hope thats alright with you!
oh
It bothered her to no end. She couldn’t stop picking at it. It was just close enough to her jaw to be in a weird spot that she could hardly reach, but not really get at. She spent a solid minute attempting to get rid of it. Then her mother slapped her hand away and scowled.
A blemish is an unappealing flaw on the face. You could also use the work in other situations, such as, there was a blemish on the finish of the newly redone dresser. We had received it from a lady we had evicted for not paying rent. It was, to our surprise, worth about $1800 when it was all redone.
Your face is unblemished,
but the makeup you wear
covers the scars you’ve
claimed through your battles
and the baggage you’ve carried
has weighted your shoulders to
a sad slump
and you finally stagger to your
knees from the pressure
of life
and that last second, your last second
will be spent wishing of a better ending
to your pathetic and exhausted
existence.
Ugh. They get all over your face that shit is terrible. I wish I could wipe them of my face as easily as I wipe my butt.
it’s what everyone else sees on the surface, but it’s what you see on your soul. And it spreads no matter what you do; and you can’t fight it. It stains you and becomes more than a blemish. It kind of hurts after a while. From all the scrubbing. Trying to be rid of it. But it’s you.
My entire face and body is covered in disasters
They call them blemishes,
but I see more than that.
Everything,
not just the actual blemishes,
are blemishes.
and problems
and ugliness
all wrapped up in the package of myself.
its just a little blemish on my heart
Oh, no. A blemish on human society–but really, those usually turn out as catastrophes.
here we are scoured
nonsensical
morning-freckled and
worried
still so worried
though all we could
dream of is the
inherent desire to
erase
soon it will be found
in our skin
the longing for
a mark of
significance; a
sun-spot, a
dark kiss
like yours;
only it lasts.
clear and unblemished, but that was the illusion, the mask. Things were never as the first appeared, and he was no exception. He was… innocent once. Innocent and pure and, and, and… what changed? He didn’t know. It was the Sleythtil. He thought. He never should have listened, never should have gone through with it. Now all he had was an illusion and the tattered remains of what could have been.
here we are scoured
nonsensical
morning-freckled and
worried
still so worried
though all we could
dream of is the
inherent desire to
erase
soon it will be found
in our skin
the longing for
a mark of
significance; a
sun-spot, a
dark kiss
like yours;
only it lasts
ew. gross. an unperfection. scars the rest of u. a blemish in life. slows you down and leaves you ugly on the inside
Such news put a blemish on the clear unclouded day. Whatever happened to simplicity? This was equal to being kicked when you’re already down.
This blemish I can no longer hide. For you are here always dear blemish, ruining this first date, this photo, or this life? perhaps you are not a blemish at all. Have I turned you into a blemish when really you are just a simple nudge or helpful reminder. Could it be that I have decieved myself? Or maybe you have decieved yourself. Blemish. I’ll just cover you up.