Jan 2013
If I had any amount of money for every time I've been called beautiful I'd be rich in every way except for honesty. You think that beauty is measured by the eye?
We are taught to open our mouths to put on a coats of chemicals redder then any blood I've spilled and nastier then any skin tone already given.
And yet it's advertised as beautiful.
Like for some reason, we weren't in the first place.
So what you're saying is the way I tuck my hair behind my ear is tactful.
That all my knowledge of Harry Potter isn't ****. Well excuse my premature thoughts of the obvious ****** tension that Harry and Draco shared hidden between the lines of JK Rowlings novelty. My wonders of paint splattered jeans I put on display like calouges in a coffee shop, aren't they artful? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
I mean, the magazines of models so skinny you could pick cheese with them. And the women just given birth going on weight watchers. As if strong thighs and meat on your bones is something to be ashamed of.
Maybe influence is something we have no control over but do you mean to tell me I am beautiful because my thighs don't touch and you can see my collar bone?
Well I can say the same for a little girl in Haiti. She lost her life because there was no food left after the farmers took her families last handful of soil. But at least she was beautiful right?
I want you to stop telling me I'm pretty because my eyes are a certain way. I want you to stop telling him he is ugly because has scars left over on his skin. And instead look at our tactics at life. I'll look at yours for a minute.
Every time you correct is a way of showing you care enough about the little turtle to make sure he not only gets up but never has to fall again. And the way you spread your happiness like rays of sunshine with so much to give.
The silence is just another way of saying I love you. So wrap your me up in your arms and hold me like you never want to let me go. Like I'm the last girl you'll ever say you want to grow old with.
Maybe this time when you look me in the eyes instead of weight scales and eyeliner streaked tears you'll see a girl with a heart full of hope.
A girl with hand me down sweaters and books about pretty girls sheltered never having stepped out of their castle.
So when I ask you if I'm beautiful hold me and tell me all my little quirks that make me an individual.
We are taught to open our mouths to put on a coats of chemicals redder then any blood I've spilled and nastier then any skin tone already given.
And yet it's advertised as beautiful.
Like for some reason, we weren't in the first place.
So what you're saying is the way I tuck my hair behind my ear is tactful.
That all my knowledge of Harry Potter isn't ****. Well excuse my premature thoughts of the obvious ****** tension that Harry and Draco shared hidden between the lines of JK Rowlings novelty. My wonders of paint splattered jeans I put on display like calouges in a coffee shop, aren't they artful? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.
I mean, the magazines of models so skinny you could pick cheese with them. And the women just given birth going on weight watchers. As if strong thighs and meat on your bones is something to be ashamed of.
Maybe influence is something we have no control over but do you mean to tell me I am beautiful because my thighs don't touch and you can see my collar bone?
Well I can say the same for a little girl in Haiti. She lost her life because there was no food left after the farmers took her families last handful of soil. But at least she was beautiful right?
I want you to stop telling me I'm pretty because my eyes are a certain way. I want you to stop telling him he is ugly because has scars left over on his skin. And instead look at our tactics at life. I'll look at yours for a minute.
Every time you correct is a way of showing you care enough about the little turtle to make sure he not only gets up but never has to fall again. And the way you spread your happiness like rays of sunshine with so much to give.
The silence is just another way of saying I love you. So wrap your me up in your arms and hold me like you never want to let me go. Like I'm the last girl you'll ever say you want to grow old with.
Maybe this time when you look me in the eyes instead of weight scales and eyeliner streaked tears you'll see a girl with a heart full of hope.
A girl with hand me down sweaters and books about pretty girls sheltered never having stepped out of their castle.
So when I ask you if I'm beautiful hold me and tell me all my little quirks that make me an individual.
