i used to hate the sight of my rough, imperfect skin
the sight of my dry, bleached hair
and my reflection in the mirror of when i woke up in the morning

but now, i run my hands over my still imperfect skin
its texture resembles the earth
and i am perfectly fine with that
for the marks, footprints and scars that mark the earth reveal a journey
a life worth so much more that unstained glass porcelain

my dry, unwashed hair?
that is a result of late nights inside of my head
sitting at my desk and letting my thoughts run wild
letting my ideas run through my head seamlessly,
as if time was chasing them through a deep, dark forest that was the night

past the surface of the skin
lays thoughts, passions and ideas
to push through the surface that is skin and body
to see the wonders that uncover themselves inside
for it’s a magical place, the mind