They say be skinny but not too skinny. They say be girly and lady like, for that is pretty.
They say be curvy but only in the right places.
They say always have a smile on your faces.
Who made such rules?
Who were these people so cruel?
Why can't I just be me?
Slowly in my head the truth starts to creep.
They too were never accepted for who they were.
They too were shamed for every freckle, every curve.
It is not their fault entirely, now I see.
They just don't want us to face the hate they had to feel.
In the process of getting the world to like us though, we started hating our own bodies.
Taught to be somebody's instead of somebodies.
Is it alright that they won't let us be ourselves?
Shouldn't they know better since they've been through it themselves?
The world before them changed them, got into their head.
But we must not give in, or the real us will be dead.

“Be them; when you are already yourself.”

“Be yourself; everyone else is already themselves.”

They have pressurized girls into feeling beautiful always.
"Chin up, makeup on, be poised and smile your best even on the bad days."
In a world where being pretty is all there is.
Dare to be different, dare to take that risk.
Be more than merely beautiful.
Be kind, be compassionate, be helpful, and respectful.
Be sensitive, be brave, be shy, be tough.
Don't think that just being beautiful is enough.
Be a rebel, be a fighter, break all the rules, don't give a ****.
Be manly, be girly, be all you can.
Be the ******* fire, be passionate, be a dreamer.
Be weird, go crazy, choose love, be a lover.
Be the fierce hurricane if you want to.
A gentle, slow and soft drizzle works too.
Don't feel restrained or constricted ever.
Go wild, live your life like you've never.
I hope you see that there are things beyond beautiful too.
And one of them darling, is you.

Don't you see just how beautiful you really are?
You are like a sky full of the brightest stars.
Your freckles you try so hard to cover all the time.
Only make me wish you were mine.
The curvy figure that makes you worry.
Only makes me like you more, I'm not sorry.
You are not pretty enough you feel.
But somehow yet my heart you always seem to steal.
You don't need the makeup to hide.
I see how even those smiling pretty eyes have cried.
You don't like yourself the way you are.
But you make a spark light up in my heart.
They make you feel worse about yourself everyday.
But it's your choice, so do it your way.
Don't care about them.
Be yourself, my precious little gem.
Be you and don't think of what they'll say.
I promise I'll love you all the way.

There came a point in my life where the world was forever changed in my eyes,
As a child, I struggled to see our differences.
Imagine walking up the steps of the 102 floors in the Empire State Building on a scorching summer day, having to stop to take long breaths and finding it hard to breathe,
While others easily take the elevator and don’t break a sweat.
This concept baffled me, like an author with writer’s block,
They don’t know what to write next as I don’t know how to move forward with this new information.
Suddenly, I began to wonder if my friends knew what I knew
And if they knew, do they look at me differently because of our differences?
This changed my perspective on the “perfect” world that I thought I was living in.
What really makes us so different though?
Is it our intelligence? Or is it our skin tone? Is it our history? Or is it just a general society belief?
As I got older, people began to openly make me aware of our differences.
The harsh, cruel words I received aggravated me, but I would not let them see my weaknesses.
I am aware of what makes us different now, but I refuse to let that change who I am.
Although my differences can be seen as a bad factor to some, I see them as something great,
An opportunity to glow, shine, and be the best version of myself.

Be proud of your beliefs.
Where you came from.
Who you are.
Because in the end,
You are who you are.

I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
swaying haziness
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.

When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
and songstresses,
neither, no more.

In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
and distress,
with the lights of blessed poets
and songstresses,
in a multitude of metamorphoses.