Your eyes reminded me of oceans
and broken promises
you were just like the ocean
you had promising days
beautiful reflections but you were dark and scary.
Because I couldn't swim
but you took me anyway
your voice drowning me in but I'm the ******* ****
even though you took girl after girl
Was I not good enough
our constant arguments drowning me
suffocating my innocence even the ocean
couldn't wash away the sins
that flooded out the lies you put in my head.
I'm not the weak one because even
though I couldn't swim
I got up and fought your toxic wasteland
you tried to win but
I'm letting you know
I learned how to swim
*****.

When are we going to wake up to start believing that we should stopped competing and start complimenting to feel like were completing.

We need to be a team player instead of the team leader, replacing that with the idea of being on the same team and building something that's takes on the dream.  

How are we going to teach ourselves of what's needed to be taught? If we are communicating to each other's to misperceived when sought to read and believe of what’s being well-received.  

Why are we all on this justification to be misrepresentation as to juxtapose when we are responsible for the I could and the I suppose.    
To add what is the so what to the now what? But it's the actual what needs to be address in which perhaps misaddressing to the audience of nowadays. As if we are surrogate of the hideaways of the be real today.  

It's we and us and all of us to address the matter of comradeship of how compassion of it to be who you are. To create this level of friendship of the desire to follow the footsteps of who you are and as it's start with you and it begins with and ending of you.

When words are not enough,
and the world won’t get off her back,
she dances the Devils way,
She’s a princess,
wait she’s a queen,
wait she’s an angel,
wait she’s everything,
a Goddess,
the hottest performing artist I’ve ever seen,

and she’s dancing,
dancing is her therapy,

I mean,
I’m not James Brown,
but it’s a man’s world,
even if Rihanna runs this town,

See,
she’s been suppressed all her life,
and I’m not just talking about Rihanna,
I’m talking about every girl that was ever forced to be a wife,
just to survive in this life,

she was touched by her father,
or brother or cousin,
when she was just a little girl,
I know we all wish it wasn’t,
but it is true,
so what’s a girl to do,
when she’s a clean 13 messing with The ***** Dozen,

this isn’t battle of the sexes,
this is war of the worlds,
wants to be a woman but she’s just a girl,
no No Doubt just burnt out nerves taken turns,

she never asked to be born,
with the burden of being beautiful,
but she refuses to conform,
she is attractable irrational and radical,
so when it’s all too much,
the stares and the catcalls,
the aggressive forceful touch,
the nails across her back like a blackboard,
and the moans become just white noise,
she takes it all in,
she forgives the man because he’s just a boy,
he is an angel even if he has fallen,
she takes it all in,
and she uses all of those abuses,
as the fuel with the tools which induces,
an allusive state of truth which,
allows her to move with intuitive smoothness,
and lose herself in the music morphing into what a centrifuge is,
separating fluids transforming what was otherwise useless abuses,
into a truth that cruises and confuses the stupid stooges,

she dances,
in a statement of glorious refusal to submit to their ideals,
she is more than a princess queen angel goddess,
she is fire burning up all preconceived notions of *** appeal,
the real deal,
dancing sweating cleansing her soul and her pores,
moving faster in progression refuting repression,
overcoming an obsession of oppression and knocking down all doors,
she is not a possession,
though she is possessed when,
she’s a dancing expression of how we all feel and more,

no words are enough,
she shows what we all feel,
she reveals what,
was before thinly concealed,

she is the perfect expression,
of imperfect circumstances,
she is poetic stanzas,
she is the paint on the canvas,
there is no question that she is the answer,
and all of this is made clear when she takes it all in,
let’s go of everything and dances…

∆aron L∆ Lux ∆

#strength #metoo #dancer #ballet #blackswan

they'll paint white walls over your thoughts
because they think simplicity looks better than polka dots.

they will strip you down to nothing
because bare is better than bare minimum.

they say your body is your canvas,
then why are they scribbling
on her canvas?

they’ll doodle words,
perhaps phrases of flatter
like "You're pretty"
teaching her that that's all that matters.

They'll hang up a **** model picture
because her body should look like this, you know?
Richer.

They'll say her body is a temple
“she's eating all that for lunch?”
they'll say her body is a temple
but her body
is the house
she grew up in
and yet you have the audacity to try and burn it down?

Oh
I forgot to mention
the white paint that they used to paint over her?
yeah ... slight misunderstanding
It's permanent.

what could they expect?
it's their fault actually,
it said everything on the label
but they were too busy you see.  
Too busy to see what it was really made out of, too busy to read what made it the way it was.
Because one glance is enough, right?

One glance is enough to ask her "what did you eat today?"
And as her stomach grumbled
and her blood ate her alive,
she would answer "oh plenty!"

And you would look happy with her answer because
she is treating her body like a house she doesn't even recognize.

And you would look happy with her answer because
she let her body become your canvas

And you would look happy with her answer because
Your white paint was worth your money after all.

A girl is more than just dresses, butts, and *******,
she is worth more than your dares and bets,
on trying to break her heart,
and break her down.
She is more than just a toy to play with,
until you see her crack and frown.
She is not used to please you, to serve you,
for you to demean her,
a girl is not just something to amuse you,
as if you hired a clown.
No, she is worth more than that, and she deserves more than that,
She deserves to wear a crown.
Allow her to feel like royalty,
not to feel unworthy,
as she walks the streets in fear,
because they say she is flaunting her gifts,
and she is something to hunt, like a game for deer.
No, a girl is someone special,
a girl deserves to show her confidence,
where her body has acceptance,
not of *** or lust,
or of the size of her bust,
but for her self-esteem,
so let her dream,
and make her dreams come true,
where she can wear her pink dress, or skirt that was blue,
and,
she is more than just something for you to do.

The number of trees in the world equal the number of rivers,
as one cannot live without the other without dying in a quiver.

The number of stars in the sky equal the number of gazers,
as the beauty of the them lies in the eyes of their admirers.

The number of creators equal the number of oppressors,
you see - every man has predecessors.

You see, the point I'm trying to make,
is that equality lies all around us in - in nature, in life.
Years ago when some tried to Mother's importance take,
they destroyed the balance of our future, leaving the ****** prints of oppression and inequality in their wake.

Open your eyes and look around,
in every place, there is the presence of patriarchy and absence of equality clearly found.

Stop this, you must,
If you cannot, carry your shoulders to someone you trust.

a tear drops from her eyes
and it brings no cause
though it quivers with emotion

and the stars do not shine brighter
when polished with her briny tears
but dim their glow and listen
listen!
to her sobbing
but wait
her capillaries will burst!
stop it!
stop it!

its translucence
its opaqueness
the inherent contradictions it produces
and the images it emanates

so while her eyes may open
they are unfocused
and gone
and the click of their judgements is obscene
because her soul has escaped

where has it gone?
she swears she saw it just a moment ago
just a moment
just a moment
just a moment

how far must she travel
to rediscover
her purpose
her purpose
what a preposterous concept

neither rest nor return
are purpose

neither love nor hate
are purpose

neither this nor that
so then what
what is it
what is the answer
to this unquantifiable question

perhaps it rests
in the caverns of her dreams
in the caverns of her subconscious
synesthetic
mind
seeing colors for numbers
and mango puddles in the rain

it was always her imaginative spirit
that activated her forehead
which wrinkled with the tides of
hurt pain sadness glory god

and she was told
to soften that sternness
soften it until she was nonexistent

but instead she asked
what are these things
what are their purpose
besides drinking foreheads and wringing potential
and piping out excuses for this and for that
for crimson activities and
claret affairs