Autobiography of a Face

These are the eyes that never cried

When he died,

But cried for him since

To give the soul a good rinse.

Recently they demanded equal rights,

This pair of eyes,

After one began to whinge

About being hidden by a grown-out fringe.

The nose,

That was compared to a ski slope at school,

(Kids can be cruel…

And unimaginative)

Was pierced in its teens

And still is today… but now that feels like a cliché,

The fact that it kept bleeding

Never was resolved

And it remains really very needy

It hasn’t evolved.

The freckles across the nose and cheeks

Are a recurring theme that creeps

Through the years like a dream

Fading in and out

Without anyone ever really knowing what they’re about…

And then there’s the mouth

(If you carry on South)

Which in only its second year

Yelled out grace

Loud and clear, for all to hear

In a crowded café,

And is still prone to do whatever it likes

Even today

Regardless of social graces

Or whether the words are escaping at the appropriate times or places.


(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15



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