How many kinds of blemished are there on my heart that I’ve put there simply from my thoughts? From my heart to my head and then to my actions. How much longer can we continue to allow the things we’ve done wrong to continuously make us do more wrong things? Blemishes on the face go away just as we can be forgiven of the hidden blemishes on our hearts.
i have alot of them i used to hate my blemishes but as i grew older and as times goes on i learn to love them more and more ,they are what’s make me ME and i shouldn’t hate what define me whats make me ME and i think everyone should just learn to love their blemishes .
Asmaa
In the ancient sky, no light existed. There was no #blemish in the void of darkness. It was pure nothingness — totally complete and yet entirely formless and nonexistence. Then there was a thought and the primordial flowing of light erupted. @oznolem @oneworddotcom
My painting had a small blemish. While I knew that nobody else would notice it, I couldn’t help myself from fixing it. I mixed some pink and tan with my paintbrush and lightly dabbed at the blemished area, hoping I wouldn’t mess it up more.
It was hard to tell if I had made it any better. I would have to wait for the paint to dry.
there were a lot of things, that had happened in my life recently. I remember the days where i thought i was going to loose myself. It was not only a simple problem as small blemishes, appearing one by one, it is a permanent manifestation of how stupid i have become. These blemishes have no origin, it was innate and only me can get rid of it.
Jet Cenia
Delilah didn’t blemish like the other teens. Her skin never lacked like mine. She didn’t need to fake beauty.
he’s a spot on your record, you know. he’s a blemish. we all know about the two of you. we all remember it. we’re never going to forget it. your association with him will follow you every where, through your whole life, and even if you move, even if you go somewhere no one knows you, or him, that spot will still be there. it’s like putting a pillow over a blood stain.
Blemish! Oh my god, I cannot imagine the kind of blemishes that occur to people in their old age. I am eighteen right now and cannot imagine the horrors of elder people. Especially some older women who aren’t but pretend to be of a very younger age than their real ones and try to hide their blemishes! I would say it’d be a good thing to accept how you are and be happy with it. And as that saying goes, happier women are prettier :D
Sanskruti Patel
What a beautiful smile I thought as I gleaned the magazine over and over again, hoping that the blemish on the young girl on the cover would disappear.
victor walkes
:It will be a blemish on your permanent record” Mrs Haskins said. I looked back at her, wondering f getting a C in Algebra 2 would really keep me from getting into art school, or becoming a commercial fisherman, or going into forest management… Maybe if I was applying to CalTech, but… otherwise, who cares?
Annie
oh, those blemishes..always a distraction from the perfection that i am not, always there to remind me that perfection is unattainable, it is nothing to aspire for..they are not easy to hide..they fade away, only to be replaced by new ones..
Anu
“It’s fine.” Mr. Knight whispered, with no small amount of assurance.
“It’s certainly not!” cried Arthur, now showing the beginnings of a truly remarkable flailing of the arms.
Mr. Knight shook his head, pausing for just a moment before frustratedly repeating himself, “It’s just a blemish.”
Arthur was in disbelief. There was being tough, and then there was lunacy, and this man had obviously crossed further into the latter than he’d ever thought possible. “But you have no arms!”
“It’s fine.” Mr. Knight whispered, with no small amount of assurance.
“It’s certainly not!” cried Arthur, showing the beginnings of a truly remarkable flailing of the arms.
Mr. Knight shook his head, pausing for just a moment before frustratedly repeating himself, “It’s just a blemish.”
Arthur was in disbelief. There was being tough, and then there was lunacy, and this man had obviously crossed further into the latter than he’d ever thought possible. “But you have no arms!”
Brandon Steward
At a young age, Trace had seen his mother buy tub after tub of cream, if only to cover up the bruises and marks all over her limbs and face. Little presents left by his father and uncles, his brothers, and just about anybody else in his family.
It was sickening, but not as sickening as hearing that familiar crunch of bone against skin, and everything else in between.
Ella J.
There are blemishes which exist. And blemishes which don’t.
There are blemishes which people try and make you believe exist, when all you can see in the mirror is basically, yourself. Nobody else.
There are blemishes which are actually nothing more than spectres of the past, clouds in an otherwise blue sky. There are blemishes which have become uglier because somebody has been trying to hide them so religiously.
The truth is, blemishes don’t exist. There is no such thing as a blemish. The imperfections are the castes our sould were set in in the first go. What comes after that is the finishing t8uch of a person who can never be happy with what he has made.
Faiza Hameed
Before Jesus died on the cross, they had to give sacrifices to ask for forgiveness. They would have to sacrifice a lamb without blemish. Without defect. But, after Jesus died on the cross for our sins, they didn’t have to sacrifice a lamb any more. They were forgiven by Jesus Christ. And so are we.
Whats that ?? On your face,just near to the ear..its a spot…A blemish..
Ah,just a blemish..leave i alone…
Oh no,I should not have ignored that small blemish on my face..its just filling up too fastily..all over my body and mind!
Malavika
a mark — could be something you’re embarrassed about or want to hide or it could actually be a badge of honor. As we get older, it seems that blemishes become less problematic and more interesting as they keep us unique.
bmoe
She dipped her hand into the paint and lifted her hand to her face. She smeared it across her skin, closing her eyes as it drenched her eyelids and dripped down her cheeks. She let it run down her neck and streak down her chest. She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the half-misted mirror. Better. She looked better in magenta.
She had a blemish on her face at the worst possible time – the day before her Senior Prom. Would she ever be able to get rid of it in time? She had heard of some home remedies, but she was not sure if they would do the trick. Her best bet was to buy a lot of cover-up and concealer to hide it.
The commission had been going so well. Vincent glanced at the scalpel in his hand, still dripping from his latest work. For over a year he had been carving her to be his masterpiece; a David of muscle and bone. But now, with a tremble of the sleep-deprived hand, he had sliced his earnings away. He glanced down at the slit in Maria’s stomach. The pockets of fat that he had been tasked to remove glistened around the incision like a diseased halo. Vincent bent forwards, pressing his lips on the wound, drawing succor from it. No there was no going back from here. But he could ascend his work, make the cuts he had only seen in his nightmares.. And, after the tubes and gauze had been pulled away, she would be reborn.
Stereotype is, girls always finding fault in themselves. But we forget, all we are, all we can be, female, male, and everyone else, are human. And every time, that he makes a small comment on his “blemish, his “fault,” every time he is even remotely insecure, she stops him right there in his tracks, reaches up on her tippy-toes, and kisses his little blemish, a quick peck. Tells him she loves him, and holding his hand, she shakes her head as he tries to contradict her, and tells him that she loves his faults most of all. And they continue walking.
He doesn’t complain about his blemish anymore, or not a lot, because he doesn’t want her to know he’s still insecure. But she knows when he’s worried. And she still leans up to give him a peck. And he knows that is her way of saying “I love you. And nothing will ever change that.”
When she looked in the mirror, she was constantly looking over her features for any blemishes that others would surely notice. It’s not like she’d use makeup to hide them, she never wore it except on special occasions. She merely wanted to know if she looked good enough to go outside for a few hours.
Nicole M.
This is the word that terrified many young girls. The blemish – the impure skin. That red dot on your chin that spreads across your face – your back – your arms – your body. We somehow think that growing up ends the fight but it doesn’t. I had pimples at my graduation. Just three, but all my pictures show the same thing. Red blemishes on my face as I received my two bachelor’s degrees at the age of 23.
It shouldn’t matter – I know it shouldn’t matter. I am beautiful not because my skin is usually pure but because of my accomplishments. And yet the glaring red spots declare ‘this girl doesn’t know how to take care of herself like a true and proper lady.’ I am somehow less of a woman because my skin is blemished.
K Taylor
I sighed in discontentment, looking closely at my face in the mirror. I knew my complexion was far from perfect, just like I was. I wished that I could hide the blemish on my face, hide my flaws, but they would all come to the surface eventually and leave me feeling inadequate.
Shr
I lived my whole youth and most of my adult life with blemishes. I had to sneak away during a basketball game when I learned whether I would be a “skin” instead of a “shirt” because I was too afraid or embarrassed to take my shirt off and get laughed at.
David
her face was free of blemish her heart was dark perhaps there was chance of compromise – I had blemishes everywhere – my baggage was as heavy as hers I suppose
gander
Literally my entire face. My entire body. There’s days when I don’t remember what it was like to have skin that lacks markings. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever experience that again. I never though that something only skin deep could affect me so much — my confidence, my ability to look people in the eye, my lack of intimacy with others. I don’t remember the last time I walked outside with short sleeves.
ys
“If they were to walk up to us right now, who would be more surprised?” he said, as he wrote in a worn-down notebook.
“Well,” his partner said, thinking slowly, pencil tapping on the wooden desk, “I think the question is all together obsolete. They were never very fond of change.”
Blemishes plagued her face, giving her an insecure feeling at every point in her meager life. Ridiculing had been enough to give her a reclusive lifestyle, but the beatings that came with it gave her ire unmatched.
Amy
Jessica, a girl that worry’s about every single blemish. For example, when her foundation was not an exact match to her skin she through a tantrum. Until one day she had bullied a student because had a little marker stain on her t-shirt. The student said she did not care about every single little flaw. This changed her train of taught and she never cared about any imperfection again.
Their once was a girl in my class. One little blemish on her shirt or dress would completely ruin her day. Every little flaw was a big deal to her.
Vanessa B
blemish
i see it where it isnt and i pick and pick and pick and
why cant i stop
its not there
pick pick pick pick
im scarring myself why
it hurts
nails tearing into scabbed skin
pick
i have to it haunts me i have to
pick and pick and pick at it
taylor
I’ve had this brown blemish on the side of my nose for as long as I can remember. Most people have interesting stories about their markings, or as I like to call them, their natural tattoos. My friend Bess has a scar she got from getting scratched by a cat when she was five. My brother’s birthmark on his forehead was due to a complicated birth. I, on the other hand, have boring spots, freckles, dots, and speckles. Even when it comes to my physical flaws, I’m very ordinary.
Belinda Roddie
It was hard to hide the blemish of her soul. I couldn’t just feel her, I could see her! She drifted towards me, arms open, hand reaching out to touch me. Then, I realize she’s choking me. I felll down, falling
There was a blemish on her soul. She would never be the same. There was a little black spot on her heart that she was trying with all her might to get rid of, but it just wouldn’t go.
She had killed someone.
And it would haunt her for the rest of her life.
blemish, temporary, nothing to freak over, but the LA girls do.
they apply blemish control gel, and beautifying apps.
its the culture
about appearance
but a blemish is temporary, baby doll.
JV2015
A blemish on her past. The repeating history, again presents itself, open like a flower for her to enjoy. She shuddered. The tarnish does not fade, she reminded herself. She cannot arrive again, in this place. She cannot repeat the mistake. If she lets it go, the past, it is over. If she repeats it then, well, here we are again.
How many kinds of blemished are there on my heart that I’ve put there simply from my thoughts? From my heart to my head and then to my actions. How much longer can we continue to allow the things we’ve done wrong to continuously make us do more wrong things? Blemishes on the face go away just as we can be forgiven of the hidden blemishes on our hearts.
i have alot of them i used to hate my blemishes but as i grew older and as times goes on i learn to love them more and more ,they are what’s make me ME and i shouldn’t hate what define me whats make me ME and i think everyone should just learn to love their blemishes .
In the ancient sky, no light existed. There was no #blemish in the void of darkness. It was pure nothingness — totally complete and yet entirely formless and nonexistence. Then there was a thought and the primordial flowing of light erupted. @oznolem @oneworddotcom
My painting had a small blemish. While I knew that nobody else would notice it, I couldn’t help myself from fixing it. I mixed some pink and tan with my paintbrush and lightly dabbed at the blemished area, hoping I wouldn’t mess it up more.
It was hard to tell if I had made it any better. I would have to wait for the paint to dry.
there were a lot of things, that had happened in my life recently. I remember the days where i thought i was going to loose myself. It was not only a simple problem as small blemishes, appearing one by one, it is a permanent manifestation of how stupid i have become. These blemishes have no origin, it was innate and only me can get rid of it.
Delilah didn’t blemish like the other teens. Her skin never lacked like mine. She didn’t need to fake beauty.
he’s a spot on your record, you know. he’s a blemish. we all know about the two of you. we all remember it. we’re never going to forget it. your association with him will follow you every where, through your whole life, and even if you move, even if you go somewhere no one knows you, or him, that spot will still be there. it’s like putting a pillow over a blood stain.
Blemish! Oh my god, I cannot imagine the kind of blemishes that occur to people in their old age. I am eighteen right now and cannot imagine the horrors of elder people. Especially some older women who aren’t but pretend to be of a very younger age than their real ones and try to hide their blemishes! I would say it’d be a good thing to accept how you are and be happy with it. And as that saying goes, happier women are prettier :D
What a beautiful smile I thought as I gleaned the magazine over and over again, hoping that the blemish on the young girl on the cover would disappear.
:It will be a blemish on your permanent record” Mrs Haskins said. I looked back at her, wondering f getting a C in Algebra 2 would really keep me from getting into art school, or becoming a commercial fisherman, or going into forest management… Maybe if I was applying to CalTech, but… otherwise, who cares?
oh, those blemishes..always a distraction from the perfection that i am not, always there to remind me that perfection is unattainable, it is nothing to aspire for..they are not easy to hide..they fade away, only to be replaced by new ones..
“It’s fine.” Mr. Knight whispered, with no small amount of assurance.
“It’s certainly not!” cried Arthur, now showing the beginnings of a truly remarkable flailing of the arms.
Mr. Knight shook his head, pausing for just a moment before frustratedly repeating himself, “It’s just a blemish.”
Arthur was in disbelief. There was being tough, and then there was lunacy, and this man had obviously crossed further into the latter than he’d ever thought possible. “But you have no arms!”
“It’s fine.” Mr. Knight whispered, with no small amount of assurance.
“It’s certainly not!” cried Arthur, showing the beginnings of a truly remarkable flailing of the arms.
Mr. Knight shook his head, pausing for just a moment before frustratedly repeating himself, “It’s just a blemish.”
Arthur was in disbelief. There was being tough, and then there was lunacy, and this man had obviously crossed further into the latter than he’d ever thought possible. “But you have no arms!”
At a young age, Trace had seen his mother buy tub after tub of cream, if only to cover up the bruises and marks all over her limbs and face. Little presents left by his father and uncles, his brothers, and just about anybody else in his family.
It was sickening, but not as sickening as hearing that familiar crunch of bone against skin, and everything else in between.
There are blemishes which exist. And blemishes which don’t.
There are blemishes which people try and make you believe exist, when all you can see in the mirror is basically, yourself. Nobody else.
There are blemishes which are actually nothing more than spectres of the past, clouds in an otherwise blue sky. There are blemishes which have become uglier because somebody has been trying to hide them so religiously.
The truth is, blemishes don’t exist. There is no such thing as a blemish. The imperfections are the castes our sould were set in in the first go. What comes after that is the finishing t8uch of a person who can never be happy with what he has made.
Before Jesus died on the cross, they had to give sacrifices to ask for forgiveness. They would have to sacrifice a lamb without blemish. Without defect. But, after Jesus died on the cross for our sins, they didn’t have to sacrifice a lamb any more. They were forgiven by Jesus Christ. And so are we.
Whats that ?? On your face,just near to the ear..its a spot…A blemish..
Ah,just a blemish..leave i alone…
Oh no,I should not have ignored that small blemish on my face..its just filling up too fastily..all over my body and mind!
a mark — could be something you’re embarrassed about or want to hide or it could actually be a badge of honor. As we get older, it seems that blemishes become less problematic and more interesting as they keep us unique.
She dipped her hand into the paint and lifted her hand to her face. She smeared it across her skin, closing her eyes as it drenched her eyelids and dripped down her cheeks. She let it run down her neck and streak down her chest. She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the half-misted mirror. Better. She looked better in magenta.
She had a blemish on her face at the worst possible time – the day before her Senior Prom. Would she ever be able to get rid of it in time? She had heard of some home remedies, but she was not sure if they would do the trick. Her best bet was to buy a lot of cover-up and concealer to hide it.
The commission had been going so well. Vincent glanced at the scalpel in his hand, still dripping from his latest work. For over a year he had been carving her to be his masterpiece; a David of muscle and bone. But now, with a tremble of the sleep-deprived hand, he had sliced his earnings away. He glanced down at the slit in Maria’s stomach. The pockets of fat that he had been tasked to remove glistened around the incision like a diseased halo. Vincent bent forwards, pressing his lips on the wound, drawing succor from it. No there was no going back from here. But he could ascend his work, make the cuts he had only seen in his nightmares.. And, after the tubes and gauze had been pulled away, she would be reborn.
Stereotype is, girls always finding fault in themselves. But we forget, all we are, all we can be, female, male, and everyone else, are human. And every time, that he makes a small comment on his “blemish, his “fault,” every time he is even remotely insecure, she stops him right there in his tracks, reaches up on her tippy-toes, and kisses his little blemish, a quick peck. Tells him she loves him, and holding his hand, she shakes her head as he tries to contradict her, and tells him that she loves his faults most of all. And they continue walking.
He doesn’t complain about his blemish anymore, or not a lot, because he doesn’t want her to know he’s still insecure. But she knows when he’s worried. And she still leans up to give him a peck. And he knows that is her way of saying “I love you. And nothing will ever change that.”
When she looked in the mirror, she was constantly looking over her features for any blemishes that others would surely notice. It’s not like she’d use makeup to hide them, she never wore it except on special occasions. She merely wanted to know if she looked good enough to go outside for a few hours.
This is the word that terrified many young girls. The blemish – the impure skin. That red dot on your chin that spreads across your face – your back – your arms – your body. We somehow think that growing up ends the fight but it doesn’t. I had pimples at my graduation. Just three, but all my pictures show the same thing. Red blemishes on my face as I received my two bachelor’s degrees at the age of 23.
It shouldn’t matter – I know it shouldn’t matter. I am beautiful not because my skin is usually pure but because of my accomplishments. And yet the glaring red spots declare ‘this girl doesn’t know how to take care of herself like a true and proper lady.’ I am somehow less of a woman because my skin is blemished.
I sighed in discontentment, looking closely at my face in the mirror. I knew my complexion was far from perfect, just like I was. I wished that I could hide the blemish on my face, hide my flaws, but they would all come to the surface eventually and leave me feeling inadequate.
I lived my whole youth and most of my adult life with blemishes. I had to sneak away during a basketball game when I learned whether I would be a “skin” instead of a “shirt” because I was too afraid or embarrassed to take my shirt off and get laughed at.
her face was free of blemish her heart was dark perhaps there was chance of compromise – I had blemishes everywhere – my baggage was as heavy as hers I suppose
Literally my entire face. My entire body. There’s days when I don’t remember what it was like to have skin that lacks markings. I sometimes wonder if I’ll ever experience that again. I never though that something only skin deep could affect me so much — my confidence, my ability to look people in the eye, my lack of intimacy with others. I don’t remember the last time I walked outside with short sleeves.
“If they were to walk up to us right now, who would be more surprised?” he said, as he wrote in a worn-down notebook.
“Well,” his partner said, thinking slowly, pencil tapping on the wooden desk, “I think the question is all together obsolete. They were never very fond of change.”
Blemishes plagued her face, giving her an insecure feeling at every point in her meager life. Ridiculing had been enough to give her a reclusive lifestyle, but the beatings that came with it gave her ire unmatched.
Jessica, a girl that worry’s about every single blemish. For example, when her foundation was not an exact match to her skin she through a tantrum. Until one day she had bullied a student because had a little marker stain on her t-shirt. The student said she did not care about every single little flaw. This changed her train of taught and she never cared about any imperfection again.
Their once was a girl in my class. One little blemish on her shirt or dress would completely ruin her day. Every little flaw was a big deal to her.
blemish
i see it where it isnt and i pick and pick and pick and
why cant i stop
its not there
pick pick pick pick
im scarring myself why
it hurts
nails tearing into scabbed skin
pick
i have to it haunts me i have to
pick and pick and pick at it
I’ve had this brown blemish on the side of my nose for as long as I can remember. Most people have interesting stories about their markings, or as I like to call them, their natural tattoos. My friend Bess has a scar she got from getting scratched by a cat when she was five. My brother’s birthmark on his forehead was due to a complicated birth. I, on the other hand, have boring spots, freckles, dots, and speckles. Even when it comes to my physical flaws, I’m very ordinary.
It was hard to hide the blemish of her soul. I couldn’t just feel her, I could see her! She drifted towards me, arms open, hand reaching out to touch me. Then, I realize she’s choking me. I felll down, falling
There was a blemish on her soul. She would never be the same. There was a little black spot on her heart that she was trying with all her might to get rid of, but it just wouldn’t go.
She had killed someone.
And it would haunt her for the rest of her life.
blemish, temporary, nothing to freak over, but the LA girls do.
they apply blemish control gel, and beautifying apps.
its the culture
about appearance
but a blemish is temporary, baby doll.
A blemish on her past. The repeating history, again presents itself, open like a flower for her to enjoy. She shuddered. The tarnish does not fade, she reminded herself. She cannot arrive again, in this place. She cannot repeat the mistake. If she lets it go, the past, it is over. If she repeats it then, well, here we are again.