Fashionable or not

[Another contribution by JW: poetry and art.]

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Fashionable or not,
faith in beauty remains as fickle
as the ever-changing fads it inspires.
After all, fashion is merely another persons
opinion of how you should look or act.
Find what makes you happy
and ditch the rest.
Outside or inside,
if your reflection isn’t perfection
you’ve got no right to judge.
And what good is a high IQ
to anyone dumb enough to judge others
by the way they look?
Condemnation of another person’s
imperfections has always been
a sign of simpletons,
no matter how richly they’re adorned.
To those unable to see the beauty here,
come back when you mature.
To iterate; it’s overlooking imperfections
which draws us closer to perfection.
Especially since no one honestly relates
to Madison Avenue:
scars are the “Real Thing”.
Our differences make us special: unique.
Not our similarities, but our differences
which perfectly distinguish us.
Hate me for my differences
and you hate yourself.
Condemn me for my imperfections
and you condemn yourself.
Only by accepting me
can you truly accept yourself

 

Who am I?

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poem.]

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Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.
I’m told everyone has a story.
I do not know but mine.
The beauty of youth once graced the cover,
but scars have always been the text.
Twas’ once… and only once… I bore no scars.
That was the time I had yet to live.
The first scar to my name
came at the point of birth.
Had I known what was coming
I might’ve curled back up inside.
I have several scars through child’s play.
Then another here, and two more there,
from adults who misbehaved.
With skin to asphalt I learned
that road, like skin, does have a rash.
O’ fighting scars, my history holds,
three-hundredfold, no jest partake:
though more within than out remain.
Till off I’m sent for our common uncle,
signed-up five days past seventeen.
I’m told adventure will be mine,
a man I will become.

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Stepped on soil in foreign places:
learned a truth I want to forget,
a truth no recruiter will tell a child.
In order to put away childish things,
a step taken to manhood,
it merely cost the lives of others –
and my blood staining the sand.
My skin did part like the Red Sea
as Moses held hands high.
First once… twice… than twice again,
so many surgeries past.
Uncle Sam, he did disown me.
His promises were dust.
Though it was he who set the policy,
it was I who paid with pain.
Pain to me is life…
my daily diet.
Scars now live… inside and out,
these scars I know so well.
The unseen ones are just as real,
and oft-times they bear more honor.
I pity those whose visible scars
were self-inflicted.
All beauty is not appealing.
All scars are not unappealing.
Beauty forges vanity,
scars forge character.
It is the “beautiful” people who shun me the most.
Their character has never been tempered.
My scars testify to my courage.
Scars from heroism trump the beauty
so common on the model runway.
I’ll take my battle scars
over your beauty awards – any day.
Maturity understands
why battle scars are beauty marks.
There’s a reason pretty boys die in battle,
while this junkyard dog survived.
Beauty on the battlefield is merely cannon fodder.
Battle scars: a clearer fashion statement
than scarification, body piercing, or tattoos.

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Every masterpiece appears scarred
when still a work in progress.
Yet when it scars with age
it becomes no less a masterpiece.
Society urges me to bare my medals,
yet hide my scars.
While shunned by others
I’ve learned to cherish myself – scars and all.
“Vet” now rolls off my tongue,
no longer caught in my throat.
I am scarred for life,
yet feel no shame.
Who am I?
I am the interpretation of my scars – seen and unseen.

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[JW has become closer than a brother. We’re both disabled Vets and compatible in many other ways. And kat and I wish to thank him again for all he’s done during this bad period we’re going thru.— AJT]

The Perfect Ideal

[Another contribution from JW: both art and poem.]

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The perfect ideal.
A pristine face.
An impeccable body.
Say it isn’t so.
Outstanding?
Awesome?
Hardly.
How remarkably inhuman.
Nothing of substance to glory in.
So unlike the human condition.
Simply unbelievable.
Doubtless, the romantic strives to
articulate the perfect ideal.
And let us not forget the artistic
renderings:
vast and varied are these
attempts to portray it.
Yet could it ever be?
Not likely.
Point of fact:
Flawless beauty is an oxymoron.
Then, pray tell, who are the “beautiful
people” we hear so much about?
The creators and perpetrators of the
illusion?
Or equally disillusioned?
What manner of person willfully
elevates themselves above others
merely by appearance?
Who is the actual court jester?
The person looked down upon,
or the one doing the looking?
After all, flaws in character are
equally, if not more, detrimental
than flaws in appearance.

D/s: Prefer real scenes: Pt.3 Feeding the senses

This is the third part in a series of posts telling how kat and I incorporate sex into everyday activities, hobbies, past-times, etc.

Sensory play is well-known in the D/s world. The standard versions usually have the sub bound and blindfolded while the Dom chooses a variety of items to tantalize her senses.

However, this is a series about how we find sexual stimulation with everyday activities. So, this post will discuss art/photography, massages, and romantic dining, because sensory stimulation and sexual arousal can be achieved with each. Continue reading “D/s: Prefer real scenes: Pt.3 Feeding the senses”