It turns out that loving someone in spite of their appearance has nothing to do with emotions or that eradicating wounds and trauma has no magic formula.
Accepting one's imperfections grant new joy and, because you left a part of it behind, you won't grudge your way out holding pieces of broken smiles. Our hearts, lighter than they used to, carry suffering as we watch the world suffer from everyone's flaw-- but we can't forget how portraits hung themselves in galleries for our eyes to feast on, only to be forgotten once we step out the door.
Admittedly, the millions before and after me and, you-- are as fragile as we all will be.
Yes, it's perfectly fine to choose to live with other matters than force yourself to live with your imperfections.
We are all ugly.
And it is uglier to think that ugliness is a life sentence— a stigma, a scarlet letter, a red card, a dunce cap, a billboard of shame, a birthmark on your face.
But, what makes us ugly?
It's your inability to manifest your devastation from hatred or being at stake upon the brightness of scars— or just simply, if we romanticized modesty.
"You are worth it."
Imperfections are a long time discernment— and not because we allow them to doesn't confirm their rights to judge. Scars are beautiful, so are you. We already paid prices for our invalidity as a living flaw. What bothers you is what you think you are, so stand firm. You are on your greatest form. You are the perfect formula of beauty. You are imperfectly beautiful. You are the treasure of the seven seas. You are made of stars. You are **** brighter than a rainbow. You are the reason tapes continue to play.
And now, as we watch the fountain of misery continuously scrambling our serenity, we are all imperfectly beautiful with a heart of congruity— we have to accept everyone's offer, give them a chance to love us, at least, in a creative way.
—kvg, the ugly romantic you
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 9:02 AM UTC
Worship her like religion,
cut strips like bacon.
Believe no one like freemason,
freed yourself with abyss,
with her legs beneath,
widen.
Worship her like a bacon,
never you mind that religion.
Kiss her and kiss her and so on,
til she fall and fight you for that kiss.
She knew what's neat,
keep it hidden.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 3:00 PM UTC
The name of our Father,
neither Son nor Holy Spirit.
Crush tender and intoxicated aroma,
kissing gently praising Her name.
Simple bite, she pushed it harder,
enjoyed at the bottom with shallow touch.
Begun, be gone your beauty
Kissing, **** it with pleasing
Me, produce the sensation twined
Pray, for a Holy Night
with good night's touch.
Praise her,
like what religion told everyone.
Praise her.
She's my church of pleasure.
Praise her.
Praise and add more life to years.
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 2:50 PM UTC