Acronym

Infinitely discovering fresh
moods, new feelings,

I'm finding myself
neurotic, quixotic, undeniably

lopsided in my far-to-near-sighted
(optically undecided)
vision of this in-
effable, requited,

wonderful thing we
initiated
two months ago and I
hope it's meant to last 'cause

you've woken me up and
oddly enough, I don't want to go to sleep
unless it's with you 'cause my dreams aren't as good as this.

the last child

eighteen years old and this
wide-open hole seems to be closing rapidly;
the expansive, unalive part of us
called imagination
is cramping up and amputating its limbs,
making space
(the only thing it's allowed to create now)
for life to set in.
with every turn around,
it seems to hit the ground
and recently it's having trouble getting up.
not quite favored by the aging,
closer-to-adulthood kids any more,
'cause it's hard to imagine
when all that we're handed
is hard fact after fact that we've landed
ourselves in a pit,
they say, "get over it"
when we wish we could go back and relive this,
and change what we did
to deserve this constriction.
I've been holding on tightly for a while
and after this time, I'm still
digging myself out of this pile
of these facts after facts that will always be futile
to an eighteen-year-old girl
who stands as the last child.

Bitchy poem about a friend

How, I wonder, could you believe what you've heard,
exclusively,
now matter how absurd, is what defines and
depicts our world's ulterior force
even though others' beliefs still
run their course?
Stiff, stuck, stupid-struck, you state your
"opinions," but sadly enough,
no words you spew really come from you.

Sure that your regurgitated
thoughts present the only truth on our
Earth, despite its unfathomable
great amount of mysteries, you shove
all of what you've been taught down our
less-than-appreciative throats and
lead us to know that your mind's rather closed.

Alive (song)

You may not have known it,
but I sure as hell showed it
with every laugh and every smile I ever gave to you.
And I'm sure that by now,
even you would allow
yourself to see the facts in each and every single clue.

I might not always know what to say
but I'm ready to tell you that since that first day...

I have never felt quite this alive
and I have never let myself take such a dive
into a thing quite as unknown as you
but I think I'm ready to jump into
this thing we call life as long as
you're ready to jump too.

You may not have known it,
but I think that I show it
through all the nervousness I get whenever I see you.
But just look at us now --
we're together somehow
and I can't believe what I wished has actually come true.

I might not always know what to say,
but I've been ready to tell you since that first day

I have never felt quite this alive
and I have never let myself take such a dive
into a thing quite as unknown as you
but I think I'm ready to jump into
this thing we call life as long as
you're ready to jump too.

And if you're scared, it's okay.
Just take a deep breath and don't give it away
until we've jumped,
hit the ground,
stayed a while and looked around,
'cause what's the point in leaping if there's nothing to be found?

I have never felt quite this alive
and I have never let myself take such a dive
into a thing quite this unknown or new
but I know I'm ready to jump into
this thing we call life because
I looked and I found you.

Care-Free (song)

Rainy days never get me down
so take my hand, we'll turn it all around.
You and me, we've got the world in our hands
and maybe we can make them understand
that the storm is soon to pass
and it only gets brighter from here.

Stormy days never make a sound
in the new air that we have found.
You and me, we draw our lives in the sand
to take the weight of the world from our hands.
And while the rain hits the grass,
the sun is on its way here.

And it's time for the world to see
what it's like to be care free.

I want to be the one to show them
how it feels to be open
to a life that's eye-opening.
I want to be the one who's sharing
a day worth carrying --
you just can't do it too carefully.

Lonely nights let us find the time
for me to be yours and you be mine.
You and me, we'll never be afraid
to take the chances that we have made.
And while the night seems to stay,
a new day makes its way near.

And it's time for the world to hear
the sound of having no fear.

I want to be the one to show them
how it feels to be open
to a life that's eye-opening.
I want to be the one who's sharing
a day worth carrying --
you just can't do it too carefully.

And it's time for the world to say
that they're ready for what comes their way.

So I won't have to be the one to show them
how it feels to be open
to a life that's eye-opening.
They should know by now it's ok to be daring
just as long as you're wearing
the life you live care-free.

Right Direction (song)

for Ted

I don't know exactly where all this is going.
I don't care if I've never been here before,
but the road that we're on tonight
looks long and full of light
and it seems we're heading in the right direction.

I know I've never been one to hide what I'm thinking
and I know I'm not the type to close an open door.
The signs we pass on the right
are leading us and they just might
tell us which path to take to avoid correction.

Now I'm patiently waiting
for a day that needs saving
but I think that we've got a ways to go.
And the memories we're making --
they will never need naming
'cause the days that we have, I'll always know.

I won't worry about the things we may run into
'cause I know when I'm with you, we'll rock the world.
And the stares we get from the crowd
will do nothing, won't pull us down.
I'd do anything to keep us balancing.

Now I'm anxiously paging
through the notes I've been saving
and for the times that you give me, to you I owe
any wish that you've made
and I promise today
that what I feel for you can only show...

That now I'm readily claiming
this thing we are creating
as a new thrill in a world we can call our own.

Senior Speech Poem

Panning in on the last four years, I remember
the times I was jealous of each of you
the things you've done that I'll never do
the wishes I've made that have yet to come true
and as I take those times, those things and those wishes
and compare them to all that I've done and had,
I remember, too, that what you do is what you do
and that your lives are yours to lead
and that your time is yours to use as you please.
So I've pleaded with myself to let go
of the restrictions
that used to control my depiction of my self worth.

I remember when you made the better grade
when you would flaunt how much you paid
when you were not scared to parade around
and prove to everyone just how proud you were to be you,
but not because of what you'd do
or what you knew,
but because you could beat the others through-and-through,
no matter the circumstances.

I remember believing there was no space
for someone like me to take in a place of so much
"style and grace"... such as that which surrounds you...
And I remember how dumb I'd feel
how weak I'd feel
how small I'd feel
and just how damn unreal it was
to know that in no way, shape or form did I belong here
'cause some of this place inflated my fear
that I simply wasn't good enough.
I had not stayed at the Ritz,
I had not been to ten countries,
I had not gotten a new Beamer at 16, crashed it, and then received an
even newer, nicer Beamer the following week.
(I mean really?)
But then I remember that I'm not you --
any of you --
that I'll never do what any of you do
because your experiences are your own to keep
and I don't want them for myself.

I've had my own thoughts and not been afraid to share them.
I've fallen, ripped my jeans and been proud to wear them.
I've got bad memories but I'll always be glad to bare them,
because my experiences are my own and I want you all to know
that I'm not ashamed of my life,
and this poem isn't about strife and how to avoid it.
All I'm trying to say is that I've cared what you think
but I've learned how to clear my mind and make sure it's devoid of
comparisons to all the things you've done
'cause our time in this world has a limit
and I'm running my race, I aim to finish
and if I only care about me, I know I'll win it.
And the same goes for this whole group
'cause if you never get the clue that
you're only real competition will always be you,
then you'll miss out on all of life's true value.

But I didn't realize this all on my own;
I've had people to guide me toward a path
that allowed me to hone in
on what's real and what to disregard so I never feel
unworthy of or lesser than
those around me, so I'm able to stand
up on my two feet,
to not worry about defeat
and here's my shout out to you
(you know who you are)
who fought my battles with me
and helped me stand my guard.

But this is for everyone in the room --
Just don't forget your mistakes
and I won't forget mine, 'cause they're the things that made me
what and who I'll always be and
even though I've lied and I've cheated,
had my name typed as head prefect but then had it deleted,
I'm still in the lead 'cause I'm thinking of me today.
What you need already lies in you,
no matter how much you hope and pray.
But here comes the baton and I've got to hand it to myself --
I'm kickin' (chapel edit) at this relay.

Sappy Crap for Darworld

I uneasily squeeze my way
through the halls and on my line of sight
are slapped grins, waves,
cordial greetings that makes me crave
some comfort, a reminder,
a sense of assurance
that allows me to believe that
I'm still somewhat concurrent
with the rest of the world
that sits outside this dome --
a post-it note that says
"You're on your way home."

It's hard to trust that
despite all my worries,
I fit in the mold.
I know this from experience,
from when I was a couple years old:
a square block
doesn't go in a round hole.

But hell, it hurts to know that
even though
my corners have softened
and I've trashed some fears,
all this was
was a few good years.
I've hated this place,
cursed its name,
wished for its downfall,
its descent from fame.
Yet I've loved this place --
it's provided me the times
I'll never forget
'cause they remain entwined
with my fondest memories,
my strongest empathies.

So thinking back on it,
I might have been wrong to
accuse you of lying
when you said I belong.
I have never been so scared --
I want it to be known --
to move on once more
and to leave my real home.

Silly little nothing

Lungs hung low, stung and swollen;
I try to hold my breath, but you've already stolen
the air from me and it's hard to see
what's ahead 'cause you've got me frozen
in time with you, deprived of motion.
But I don't mind not moving --
we're quite the explosion.

New Thrill

for Ted

The last time my balance refused to stay with me --
kind of how it does when you're with me --
I was a year old and learning how to not drag my knees.

When I first attempted to walk,
my legs proved weak and quivered without hesitation
until they could no longer support the rest of me
(especially my disproportionate head, which
weighed me down).
And as I believe I've grown into the size of my head,
I can only think that what's emphasizing the
gravity that's pulling me toward the ground is
the immense force with which you inadvertantly tug on my
heart strings.

And it stings every time my blood rings in my ears
when you speed up my pulse but
the rush you release in me with every word you spill
reminds me why I'm after you, still,
because the excitement you instill in our merely
few-month new thrill is what puts in me
the endurance to stand back up.

Smile; It Inspires Me

The impermanence of this hour ignites any of my whimsical fancies
churning dormant fantasy, so my undying vitality
booms through every vein, tears past poorly-sewn seams,
and stampedes across unaffected lethargy until something
dares alleviate my despondency, and so transcends this transience;

your smiles stop time for me.

Your smiles allot therapy, and from there, they build synergy
between the group of you and me, and thus, we've got some harmony in this
tangy, boundless give-and-take.
For you, I pour out my soul and as arresting compensation,
this bliss on your illuminated faces suspends my
heart's drumming anticipation and
delineates the reason for my persistent attempts to bring you joy;

from widely-divided mouth corners to pearly whites
engulfing visages.
Air-deficient laughs, eyes overflowing with floods of saline.
Wrinkled noses, squinted eyes, hiccups and sentimental sighs
act as acoustic introduction to that fervent seduction
all of you (time and time again) douse me with to keep my fire burning.

No matter the time or place, your hallowed happiness
is forever that axiomatic substance that prompts me
to draw breath, warmth and vision ceaselessly.

Smile; it insires me.

Rhythm of Nostalgia

Despite your semi-sturdy belief of spirits not existing,
tonight, you open your eyes,
uncover your ears
and seek out your heart.

And in the rush of tree leaves briskly grazing one another,
wind racing with itself through grass blades,

the hopes of rediscovered souls vibrate the air
around you,
like a new wave of life's melodic hums,
composed of each of your idiosyncrasies
banded together, somehow,
generating the same sort of music you heard once before --

sounds like the rhythm of nostalgia taking you
back to the years you long to keep dear.

Hundred and One

Sky's dark grey tonight, and it's a memory on a loop, driving west with a boy I used to know on nights like these, acoustic sounds blowing out our windows, my toes curling while he and I swirl together around the world we've captured a hundred times on this same back road under green leaves falling through the moon roof, or the sun roof -- which ever -- and the dashboard's decorated with pieces of our adventure. Teaming tides of east coast night winds win us over and beneath this clearer sky, we vacate city lights, seek a noiseless night where we can engulf ourselves in this hundred-and-first sweep-up of each other, echo our breaths against his and my skin and the freer air we finally find every time we rendez-vous into the nowhere-new-but-unknown-to-you place we've loved for three years. And these times we've taken again and again, as we're stuck together like a sickly sweet love song to a girl's healing heart, pull my rosy cheeks up to my squinting eyes and draw me back to each day that led me to love him. And I'll keep loving him while these trees keep whistling in the cool breezes wrapping around winding dirt paths, and as our torn turquoise quilt keeps us warm on winter-nights-almost-turned-spring, these things leave me breathless in the crook of his arms until he revives me to let him lead me to love.

Eight-sided Red Warning

Thick pretty smoke stacks chafe the faces
of stand-alone city youngins
kneeling on side streets with their knees in murky drain water
on the dirty asphalt, circling a dented stop sign.
And next to the sun-worn mural of Jack Kerouac, burning fumes
and sugar strips throw a film of
distortions on the eyes of the already-blind
censored minds of middle class America.

It's 1964 and the times have changed. The music just got good
and there's this thing called freedom.
That's the word on the street, and it used to only ring a bell
but recently there's a beat of a drum never
heard over these boxy radios, never seen on TV shows
and it's not left to anyone -- no moms, no teachers,
no dads, no kids, no beavers. 'Cause now,
that makes no sense.
And the only thing that works is a four-letter word --
B.E.A.T. -- and it spells out recovery in any light.

And people love the smell of unwatched life, even through
the choking smoke clouds intoxicating
the air with high hopes and fingers shot higher,
like a bird with new wings, flying over things
as crazy as kids praying to an eight-sided red warning,
beat-in, 'cause someone wouldn't be stopped.

no goodbyes

"this isn't goodbye"

and last night I hoped those words were truer
than anything you've ever allowed your lips to let go for my ears to
steal from others' reach

"don't forget me"
and in your eyes I saw those words
drop your heart on a string and around your face were sayings like
"things like that don't happen for us" and
I believe you

'cause every time your tongue curled and your mouth moved
to push out your soul in verbal execution
I heard nothing but the look in your mind
and you know
I believe you

and I believe the letters on that second-to-last page
because they came from you
and you've typed to me a thousand times
"I love you"
but the way your fingers gripped the pen and the obvious force
you put on the page means more to me
than silly uniform font faces
'cause in your written statements
I see your own face and it reminds me that

some days, you're all I need

so please don't let this be goodbye

the sugar's gone

run down, they once stuck to your roof top
sopping wet of sugary coatings that used to taste sweet in my mind but are


dry now and flaking around the boarders of crowned molds, gilded
and losing their shine behind
firmly locked soft gates, of an off-rose shade, that gently caressed
my unattached ear lobes that night in your car while you
slurred candied whispers above the incandescent small city,

with a view from a vacant parking lot.

too many times our silhouettes tangled together under shadows to
the same rhythm the background melodies hummed in the rush of
our second sentiment.
and the way your voice sounded -- velvety, in that desirable sort of way --

tamed any quick beats of mine and aligned in a spiral with
my dying uneasiness.

but the flavour of your tone sat unpleasant on my tongue,
so I noticed the sugar was gone

'cause your words hung dry in the friday evening air.

I'm Holdin' On, Holden

My night, under opaque wraps, collects my candid questions --
unkept before the walls crept back up on me and
crammed my thorough thoughts
into sufficient suffocation and disallowed my dislocation
from total cerebral closure --
and covers cognative wonders with a dense fence-like stone cure.

The clean-cut cold sheets, tucked beneath the bed springs
spring my curiosity through layer after layer
of teeming tides of blockades and prohibition
but someone sits at the edge of the road, just before crack
drops to cliff and he catches my despair, tangled in the rye, and
before my in-experience allows me to cry,
he hurls my candid questions back my way and continues
my disallowance of detaching myself from purity.

But despite his baseball mitts, he can't catch my verbal fits
so I scream, "My wants can't be blocked forever and Holden,
I'm holding onto my life for the sake of avoiding strife with you but
celibacy of the mind can only lead to our true demise."

He looks me in the eyes, scared he'd been outdone,
so he tries to run but the cliff leaves him hanging and
I reach for his undemanding hand that swats my offer
with a backwards hat.
But his fear subsides in his recollection of his misinterpretation of
a silly old poem that led him to believe he could catch our innocence.
So wear your hat straight, Holden, 'cause in the rye,
you're not the groundskeeper, but keep your ground and
catch yourself before you fall off the cliff and lose yourself
in your selfless tantrums and your disregard for your need for wondering.

Let me break through my caul, 'cause it's burning of decay and
I've overstayed my welcome in this amniotic gate, devoid of vitality,
and I like my life in my own hands, so I'll tell you now:
I'm holdin' on, Holden. Get a grip and hold on, yourself.

Sort of Home

Listless in the crevices of
this once-upon-a-
lighter-day
heartward bound train we used
to call a sort of home,
we lay,
we listen to
clockwork ticks
measuring time passes
in this lapse of
better times before cracks in
grey walls
flicked aimlessly toward narrow
corners and
before we recognized
the lines unintended in this
sort of home
leaned into us like a heartward
bound train,
removed from its tracks,
following unmarked paths
leading to crevices filled
with listless girls and boys.
And the grey scale walls
fell into pools
of black and white sheet rock
rocking steady
touching each other heavy under
piles of un-intentions
blown into circles around our
sort of home we used
to crawl to when things like heartward
bound trains crashed
and collapsed beneath our feet,
before sets of spirals that
cranked together and ticked above
our heads reminded us
of lighter-day
fairy tales and unawake
better times in our lapses of days
before the cracks
showed in
"Once upon a time."

Transient Dark Skies

Rapidly clasping
liquid dreams,
slipping between interlaced fingers
and through uncovered
bends not embraced, you and
I hold together the pieces --
with raw, untouched skins --
of naive nights,
offer nearly bare brushes ensconced
by inklings of starlit splatter
scattered past
dust-feathered window
glass on
crisp contours neglected
before wondering heeds
wandered needlessly across uncovered
bends to
embrace untouched skins
beneath transient dark skies.
Emerald reflections of dew-
glazed grass blades
cast onto newfound passions die
under lacked light
crusted over with stinging silence while
barely near hushes
whisper unaffected rhythms,
tempos of slow
heart beats
falling from crescendos glowing
dimly through uncovered
bends embraced
as we hold together the
pieces of this
naive night beneath
transient dark skies.

Feelings of Betrayal

We glide through crescendos,
upsurges of down-throws,
through thick brick walls.
And the know-it-alls who reach for your throat
teach the audience all they need to know --

Had we kept our inside voices
and not sung 'til our words died,
we'd have followed conduct
and been given a reason to cry.

But the knots, now tied, keep
constricted our God-given right to
scream out our dreams and
fight for our life.

"I'm on your side."
Heard five hundred times and
that twelve-letter phrase
is a dozen per dime.

The papers, intangible, are
by our keepers, signed.
Now all that we have
is treason, defined.

Follow the Leader

Guilt, as it stands,
has grown on me,
erupted through my epidermus
like a blemish, an imperfection,
a tumor.
Benign, so they say,
and it's soon to go away,
after maybe a day,
or two, or ten, or
however long it may take.
But what they say
(let it be or as it may)
builds onto this cancer
and it's tearing me down.

"Upside down," they warn,
is how I should wear my frown,
as if their name is at stake.

Please excuse my unforgivable
lack of empathy.
But don't forget that you're the ones
who get tense with me
and act as if I'm too dense to see
right through your ever-present
transparency.

Let, however, the word be spread
that my contempt is frail
and my hope is dead.

But have no worries and
retain no concern,
because from what I can discern,
your pity parties
are tiresome and time-consuming;
the false apologies
and tears turned dry
sink heavy on your faces
while you attempt to lie.

Try, next time, to see past the fault,
bring your mirror with you.
You set the example
and we're all waiting to slip up again.
Follow the leader is my favourite game.

Tainted Glass

"I want to believe,"
you said, and my heart flew
down flights of stairs to
a steady surge.

The night we sat in the studio,
singing about days gone by and
dragonflies and cloudy skies
draped with lightning,
you said you missed me,
but I was right there
with you,
pinched into a corner,
back bone aligned with
the wall seams.
And it seemed the walls closed
in on us
just enough to bring you closer.

The window to your left,
feathered with dust,
was cracked in six places.
"Should put it out of its misery,"
you sighed,
but I grabbed your hand and
tugged you back
to show you the window for
more than nicked glass.

I ran our fingers over the fissures;
pointed at fallen leaves,
the magenta and tangerine clouds,
resembling ocean waves and
ballet dancers.

Our misconstrued view
through shards of tainted glass
unearthed our world
and painted a mosaic.
I wanted you to believe in so
much more than what lies
before us.
And you said you wanted to believe too.

Misconstrued Self-Image

You, with your devilish tone, send us home
to moan and groan. And you keep us, persistently,
on our toes, because no one knows what goes with you.
Without a tinge of remorse in that devilish tone of yours --
which, by the way, scorches and burns us, turns us white
with fear to utter a word -- you slip in remarks that ache
and make us take, and double-take.
Why do we put up with you?

But all you do is "put up" with us, and thus, our lack of trust
in you is justified. In no way can we just confide in you
when you continue to do as you do, and pursue gratitude
through a magnitude of hate and attitude. You roll your eyes,
wide, with vexation when we disagree with you.
And all of your sighs and grunts may stunt your growth;
because your constant state of bent-over isolation, with
your arms locked and jaw tightly shut, won't be of aid to you
when you whine about looks and aesthetic pleasance.

Rather, it will simply add to your essence, your unpleasant essence.
Your lack of poise destroys your forceful arrogance.
And directly above that lack of poise, accumulating
in that skull is nothing but air, which I guess
is fairly sensible, because the density and mass are vast in scope
and it makes me wonder...
Is that why your hair is so big?

What good will it do for you? A temporary fix -- fixed in that mind,
closed off from reality -- seems empowering, but it makes you
intolerable when you push and pull with deceptive intentions,
that eat away at you every day. And every day,
you whine and complain with chilled and shrill shrieks about
what went wrong with so-and-so
and who upset you through-and-through.

And every day, that devilish tone, amplified with every word --
absurd, making stomachs turn -- forbids your lips,
which grip onto repulsive sounds, sounds more and more like
a desperate cry for help and assistance to retract this distance.
You know the one -- that distance you place and continually trace,
and retrace, without an apparent trace for consideration for
the walls you've built.

When you finally face the face that belongs to you,
coated in caked-on make-up; when you finally see
through those hateful eyes, behind which despise lies, endlessly;
and when you finally see your lips, torn up by the acid
spewed from your throat, from which that devilish tone erects,
you'll probably be surprised, and you will realize that maybe
you should clean your mirror a bit more often.

Some Kind of Liking for Those Dreadful Things

Considering everything you've done for me,
I guess I shouldn't complain so much.
You provide a means of transportation
and you refuse to leave me hanging.

Sometimes you get lazy, but don't we all at times?
It's all right. I forgive you.
You still allow me to get from point A to point B --
and in a relatively safe manner at that!

It turns out that I couldn't live as I do without you.
I'd go insane without you, always a step away.
So when it all comes down to it, feet:
you complete me.

Jots of Beauty

Sure, your eyes are captivating and quite capable of leaving me breathless, but most would base such a description off of more aesthetic beauty. Not that your eyes are not quite deserving of the title "beautiful," but the question is longing to evade these lips, through these fingers, which cannot keep up with this train of thought: what is beauty? In a lot of cases, one would contemplate the concept of beauty and simply regurgitate every simplistic that had ever been spewed into his face -- beauty is a six-letter word for something which elicits some sort of a hormonal outburst. Well, all right, that's beauty. But beauty, which manufactures a fleeting pulse and a cold sweat -- rather addictive if not related to cardiovascular problems -- cannot possibly refer only to the select few lucky ones with the perfect symmetry and awesome genetic make-up. Arousal is not simply driven by voluptuousness or a petite skeletal frame; beauty provokes arousal both physically and mentally. What could cause the mind to produce the same feelings that a sexual sensation composes? Surely not the exterior.

Your eyes, along with every other sight-capable being's eyes, are a direct path to pure truth. Whether it be the depths of an honest statement or the disclosure of a lie, your sensational, magnificent eyes provide the directions which lead to your mind, which just so happens to be connected to your soul. The one thing that brings forth unfeigned beauty in it is that the legitimacy behind your corneas, a bit to the left of your retinas and straight past the optic nerves, is the unclouded honesty in every word that escapes your mouth.

It's strange that the utterances, forced upward and forward by involuntary systems -- starting at the brain, which sends the signals to the voice box to generate vibrations which bounce off the walls of your throat and remind the tongue to curl and touch the roof of your mouth occasionally, all in order to create a sound -- originate in the soul. What runs the brain, though? Some ulterior force, which some like to call a spirit, a soul, a consciousness. All of such are absolutely correct, and they, as a whole, form the centre of one's being which is where that alluring truthfulness, for which you are oh so famous, obtains its life. Why, though, are your eyes so much more understandable than the tone in those utterances or the fashion in which your lips move? A tone, which is yet again a result of one miniscule signal sent from the brain to the rest of the body, cannot uncover what the soul dies to eject; a tone merely follows its orders, which it takes from the brain. A tone is capable of trickery. Eyes, though, pull every emotion and every physical expression and mannerism together to fully convey the mind, which is imprisoned in that overpowering brain. One cannot hide behind his eyes, because the eyes' sole purpose is to portray what the rest of the face and body cannot; what the physical fairness cannot display, the eyes do, as a means of exposing the untouched, uncorrupted beauty which lies within.

So, your subdermal beauty, which surpasses your corporal excellence, seduces my very being. Let it be known that I am quite cognizant of the effect that your essence has on me, but your beauty, which even your captivating eyes are unable to fully release, has my inferior core under a hypnosis. The hypnosis would not succeed in enthralling me if my focus were not entirely devoted to your unearthly totality.

What is beauty? I guess that's you.