There's beauty in words,
but often I find
more in the ones I have heard
than in mine;

more in the sound
of the ones I have read,
than those at the tip
of the tongue in my head..

Over the course of 64 years (and still), I have encountered so many women (including my still lovely ex-wife) in person and in writing who struggle with their looks. It seems to be an eternal theme that crosses generations. So, I decided to write this humble piece in reply.
There are some who would say I can’t write about women’s feelings because I am a man. A patronizing old, white man. I note their objecions, but I disagree. I believe humanity always trumps gender.
We live in an artificial culture created and controlled by advertisers. Not only do they sell us stuff, they convince us that we need it. Women are perfect targets for them.
So they have created impossible standards for women to live up to. You must always look like you are 25, young and thin. They tell you this is the key to being desired, even loved. As it’s impossible to be young and thin forever, they just happen to have the products that will “help” you. They want your minds so they can profit by manipulating them. They do a great job of it.
So the key to loving your bodies and yourselves is to take back your minds. This is difficult. You are bombarded with a barrage of words and images that say you are not good enough. If only you were younger, thinner, shaped like Barbie, not greying, had longer legs, bigger *******, wore a size 2, you would be happy, and — of course — men would desire you. You would never be traded in for a younger, sleeker model. So many insecurities to exploit.
But consider the difference between beauty and Beauty. Beauty is human, individual and eternal; beauty is abstract, mass and reliant on current tastes.
I have known many women of all shapes, sizes and ages who were Beautiful. That Beauty was expressed from their hearts through their faces and eyes. They radiated it. It was not dependent on my or any other man’s approval. It just was. So I know this can be done.
Fashion changes so there will always be new things to sell. To the current ad masters, the Gibson girls of the late 19th century would now be called fat. Sell them a diet plan and gym membership. The angular loveliness of the Venus de Milo too cold and boyish. Sell her cosmetics and plastic surgery. Mona Lisa, a dumpy Italian girl. So many things to sell her.
And then there is that intense desire to please men that begins with daddy. I often hear its echo even in the strident voices of the most ardent feminists. The advertisers trade on that. That’s deep. That’s very hard to overcome. That’s both an individual and a cultural problem.
But many women never seem to consider that a great many men aren’t dumb enough to buy the 25 and thin forever image and don’t really demand to be constantly pleased. They might actually be looking for intelligence, heart, affection and respect instead of a perfect ***. Not all, often not the young, but many.
At some point, you have to say no and mean it. You are not your age, dress size, cup size or waist size. Those are just outward manifestations of the true you. If someone rejects you on the basis of such ephemeralities, you are better off without them. You have to take control of your soul. No one can give you that except yourself. You have to live with yourself just as men have to live with themselves. Again, humanity trumps gender.
I unabashedly love women. They have been one of the great delights of my life. I love the difficulties and the differences. What a woefully dreary world it would be if men and women were they same. So, it pains me to see so many women in so much pain.
You are, first of all, a person and that is worth insisting upon. Insist. Demand. Escape, if necessary. Be the only you you can ever truly be. Then you will feel pretty. And you will be as pretty as you feel.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5dbshnvztGA

  ~mce

I want to hold on
For there might be hope
But I'm afraid there may be no point;

I want to let go
For there may be no point
But I'm afraid there might be hope.

**My Dilemma

A wonderfully wise and awakened man once said,
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?"
and that is a question that roams and moans in my mind
i have an army of searchers inside my skull
scouring for the answer, looking for a sliver
of sense to provide clarity through my abundance of clouds
and this man was an honest poet and a belligerent drunk
though he is famous in his life and even after his death
but if I were to die five minutes ago, where are the tears?
who would be holding their knees to their chest in fear
of their skin running away and their bones shattering in pain
Would there be at least one soul to moan into the night
when they think that no one is listening to their begging
and pleading to the stars to send me back into their arms?
If I were to die an hour ago, would there be a news broadcast
in the honor of a teenage girl who did too many drugs and
wrote words with a unique penmanship that mixed print
and cursive in a construct of phrases that made little sense
to anyone that didn't also have their own army inside their skulls?
So, I pose this question to myself every day in the bathroom mirror:
"**** myself or love myself, which is the treason?" and I hope,
if i prove to be wrong and an afterlife carries our souls upon the arrival
of a hearse to our homes and a tear to our parents' eyes that the wise
and wonderfully awakened man had found his answer,
but did not understand it. For I am crippled by the fear of not knowing,
though also by the thought of being content and no longer looking
deeper than the valence shell of my own twisted and sad mind.

Poetry isn't about the words,
Or the emotions,
Or sounding beautiful,
Or looking smart,
Or knowing big words
Like ephemeral.
It isn't about alliteration
Or similes and metaphors.
Poetry is about what it doesn't say.
The silence between the words,
That's what matters.

There are three major stages of the English Language
According to historians and linguists alike

There is Old English when Beowulf defeated Grendel
And Middle English when Shakespeare birthed his sonnets
Finally, Modern English when Harry Potter spun his magic

However, I believe historians and linguists
Will say we are now in the midst of a fourth

I like to believe we are part of the history of language
But what will it be called? Tecno English or Neotext English?
IDK, but u will c um right. Just :) and $ me lates #stagesofenglish