What is beauty?
An ideal stuffed down our throats,
That makes us scrutinise reflections
To trace every single flaw and imperfection in our very being?
I've long since stopped searching for beauty in the mirror,
It was a loosing battle, no mater what empty compliments were spat my way.
Instead I've come to think of beauty as freedom,
As liberation from the shackled thoughts of society,
And it's come to mean so much.... more.
Beauty isn't in the angular curves of malnourished models,
The photoshopped perfection of tabloid queens.
No.
Beauty is in muted sunsets,
Colours thrown up as homage to a whispered day,
Cradles by clouds and wisps of white.
Beauty is in the moments that make you itch for a pen,
A brush, a lens: anything to preserve the moment
In perfect clarity so that you can feel again the breath thieving awe.  
Beauty is in woven fingers and passionate touches,
Love shouted through the twitch of a mouth and the softening of eyes.
Beauty is caught in the second you stop, look up
And dig your nails into a world that spins too quickly,
Seizing every day that flies your way.

Snail trails of a cloud, bleeding life into a dying sky,
As feet drum out a rhythm for wounded thoughts to dance to:
pirouetting voices shout to keep a smile on that face,
And anxiety tripping in a failed twirl, trampled by pointed toes of glee.

I felt myself suspended
in the air,
And I thought I could fly.
Then I looked down,
Saw my shadow lying on the floor,
Felt the rope around my neck,
And realised I wasn't flying at all.

She hid her heart with fallacious layers of 'don't worry' and 'it's fine',
And she pleaded them not to try and reach her soul.
But their words tore through her defences,
And they cried as the onion girl bled slowly into oblivion.

I saw your wrists in the Sky this morning,
Planes trailing white lines above my frosting breath.
They scarred the flawless blue expanse,
Marring it with imperfection.
Beautiful, wonderful, perfect imperfection.

'You don't know what it's like to feel pain'.
Oh, don't I? Just because you've never seen me struck down by it doesn't mean I haven't felt it's shattering blow.
Do you know what it's like to be stalked by your worst enemy,
To see her reflected in passing cars and shop windows?
They say you hate everyone so you're angry at the world.
Well, I'm only angry with myself.
My heart was gift wrapped by the devil,
Tied tight with a barbed wire bow
That cuts and scars me with every beat.
I bleed where no one can see, but it leaks out every now and again
Through my eyes just to remind me I'm still alive.
Just.
I cry in the shower because what's another drop of water to a gushing stream,
Turn it up hot so my skin raises to disguise the criss cross of angry red scars.
So don't tell me I don't know what it's like to feel pain. To feel hurt.
I know, the words are gouged deep into an already ravaged soul.
Just because I'm my own tormentor it doesn't make the damage any less real.
You don't know what it's like to have your own mind turn against you.
So don't you ******* dare tell me I don't know what it's like.

These are the days of skies that drift
Down to hug the canopies and lap softly at the hills.

These are the days of rain that flies,
Droplets suspended in the air that burst as stolen kisses against passing cheeks.

These are the days of flaming trees,
Fire that courses through branches to turn leaves into flickering embers.

These are the days of stillness,
A world holding it's breath, quivering with each and every heart beat.

These are the days of lingering dusk,
Cloying so thickly it can be sliced with a cry.

These are the days.
Autumn's days.

My days.