correct me if i'm wrong
but i don't believe a book exists telling us that
fat isn't beautiful
or that women should shave every surface of their body that grows hair until it shines like a new coin

i cannot recall seeing a rule that says that
men doing sports originally intended for the opposite *** makes them gay
or that if an individual wants to wear something tight or an item of clothing that doesn't cover a lot of flesh then they sleep have to have slept with a lot of different partners and have a size 0 figure

do tell me if i'm misinformed
but i do not remember ever being told
that being different hurts people and it shouldn't happen
or that the things that separate us from the rest are flaws to be ashamed of

so what i don't understand is why we all act as if it's some kind of crime
to believe what we want
to act how we'd like
to dress in the clothes we love
to be proud of who we are
because it's not
and it shouldn't
ever
be frowned upon to do what makes you happy and comfortable in your own skin

You tell me I am pretty, that I am beautiful,
And if you are trying to be playful you even call me hot,
But I know, mother, I know who I am,
Those things that you tell me I definitely know I am not.

I don’t know myself, I don’t know what I can do,
For I have strength to do anything, to touch the sky,
You tell me all these things, mother, you tell me “I ‘m proud of you.”
But I know what I have done. I know what I have not. What is it that makes you proud?

                        Why can’t you understand, love? Why wouldn’t you believe?
                        For how long would you hate yourself for what you are not?
                        Skinnier, smarter, more beautiful, & other things that have you deceived,
                        Why can’t you see what you have?  Why would you wish for everything you are not?

                        I know you think I just say things to soothe you, to make you feel better.
                       What others say to you is truer than whatever I have, to say..
                       But they don’t know you the way I do, love! How can you blindly believe?
                           Don’t let your world fall apart, for the reasons which aren’t real,
                                   Don’t curse your fate for the things you need not have,
                                      Don’t let their words hurt more than it already has,
                                           And whenever you will lend me your ear,
                                              You will find me whispering in them,
                                                  That You are beautiful already,
                                                      That You make me proud.
                                                          That I mean it, love.
                                                              I’ve meant it,
                                                                 Always.

I am a tumbleweed blown
across terracotta plains:

You are a supernova
brightly bursting into flame.

You burn for a lifetime,
For all to see,

While I drift along,
Just the wind and me.

Little boy lost,
Among the valleys
And the fens.
Took shelter under cloak,
The elements to defend.

"Mother!"
"Father!"
He yelled into the air.
"Brother"
"Friends"
But there was nobody there.

The boy marched on into the torrent of the gale,
As tears entwined with rain
Drops.
Whispering forgotten tales.

Alone.

Kind of,

But the wind has a way of bringing the world to life.
As little boy lost shivers in the pale moonlight,
He comes upon a brook from the corner of his sight.
Just enough to make him stop.

Inquire,

"Where just is this stream among the mire?"

No matter where he looked, whether,
Left
                                          or       ­         
                                                                ­                       Right.
The stream remained unbidden,
Forever out of sight...






Forever is never as long as it seems,
When we are but young with youthful dreams.
The little boy no longer as lost as we.
Finds a guide in the sight of that once brook,
Now Stream
Meandering into that river to the sea,
Flowing tidal
Through waves of possibility.

Gun in the left
                        sword in the right
The life of death or the selfless
                                                   fight
                                         Reaching out to seek
Thoughts become twisted and oblique

Thoughts going astray, the cylindrical barrel fitting nicely to the temple
Tears grazing the crescent figure of my dimple

Sword used to carve a smile
           and disguise the sufferings
Giving me hope, I want to stay on this hell for a little while