This is the body,
The meter is the heart.
The wordsmith, ever godly,
Looks nothing like his art.

Moths are swatted
butterflies kissed
Pollution in fog
but beauty in mist
Shades of skin
the lighter adored
Loveliest lauded
the average ignored
Wilting flowers
tossed and snubbed
Only the beautiful
are cherished and
loved

Sometimes when I stare into mirrors,
I see an array of illusions.
I have a hard time knowing if they're truths,
Or if they are delusions.

For example, sometimes I look and see gross skin,
But then someone will tell me I'm glowing.
I'll look into the glass and see nothing worthwhile,
Because my fat neck is showing.

Other times I will feel attractive,
As I stare into my own brown eyes,
Which I convince myself smolder,
Mocha orbs that are wise.

But then someone will point out a pimple,
And tell me I don't look that great.
I am starting to think illusions
Are all that make up my face.

How sad it is
that we see people
with our eyes

We should
look at people
with our souls

Whenever I must add new people to my life,
I feel that it is my duty to be my most likable version,
And because of that, I wear makeup, straighten my hair,
And lose myself in aesthetic immersion.

I feel better when I feel pretty,
And that breaks my heart.
I never thought my happiness,
Was such a simple and vain art.

Everyday is but time managed by the sun and the moon,
and their clocking-in cards

the sky blushes at the sight of you
while the wind can't keep its hands away,
caressing
feeling
kneading/needing every inch of your delicate frame and together you dance through the dawn in an intricate waltz to music only you can hear

the sky blushes at the sight of you
while the clouds whisper sweet things about you,
gossiping
admiring
lusting over the concept that someone as beautiful as you might be able to one day love them too, but knowing you wont they disperse and clear your view to leave only the blushing sky in their wake with nothing left to hide behind

the sky blushes at the sight of you
while the moon attempts to catch one last glimpse of you
sneaking
stretching
peeking over the horizon to see just how beautiful a creature you are, but it can't stay long so it settles for the scrapes on your knees and the bruises on your knuckles and can't help but think that they only add to your unsurpassable beauty

the sky blushes at the sight of you
while you stare at the stars that are rapidly and seemingly altogether
fading
melting
disintegrating because the sky cannot help but stare back at the lovely soul that gazes above to make the sky wonder if it's pretty enough, so the sky goes through every colour to please you, black, blue, grey, purple, orange, before finally giving up in a fit of embarrassment that you always seem to find prettiest

the sky blushes at the sight of you
while you can't help to blush back

i want to look dead (but not actually die),
maybe then you'd notice me,
i should give it a try.
my lips (like your eyes) would be blue as the sea,
my hair (like your words) would flow with such ease.
i could grasp your attention and hold on to it tight
so you would not leave in the dead of the night.
my skin smooth as porcelain, as white as a cloud,
perhaps then you might have the strength to say aloud
how much you adore me and how much you care,
how much you truly want me to be there.
but this is all hypothetical, i mean, i'm still alive
and that's what divides us,
confirms you aren't mine.
you are too filled with life (if that could ever occur)
and all that i am is simply a blur.
i want to look dead (not actually die),
maybe then you'd notice me, i should give it a try.

You call me
beautiful but you
don't see
me

what you call
beautiful
is your own
reflection with
maybe a bigger frown than
you usually
wear