There are those possessing the kind of beauty with which you cannot be born.
It is not pined after, bought, taught, or painted on...
but the rough around the edges kind of worn.
For to become it one must know strife and sadness, fear and yet still uninhabited wildness..
To be melted, corroded, and then shaped again by the earth where she lay-
like clay but out of the dirt-
It is never made and left to be with an air of mildness.
Like a broken vase, whose shards become a mosaic held back together with gold,
It's the honesty in fragility, the new-found strength and even glimmer in all of her cracks.
The warrior who tattoos every scar into vines symbolizing the growth
forever enfolding her soul.
You earn that kind of beauty when you realize-
you can not be empty and are too much of everything to be a fraction of anything
so there is only to be whole.

That is raw.
That is real.
That is really beautiful.





-This one is for my Mom.
The strongest one I know.-