The beauty of a woman
Is not in the clothes she wears,
The figure that she carries,
Or the way she combs her hair.

The beauty of a woman
Must be seen from her eyes,
Because that is the doorway to her heart,
The place where love resides.

The beauty of a woman
Is not a facial mole,
But true beauty in a woman
Is reflected in her soul.

It is the caring she lovingly gives,
The Passion that she shows.
The beauty of a woman
with passing years only grows and grows

I choose to see the beauty in people.
I will leave the ugly rhetoric
to the media's narratives.
Can't mess with those stereotypes and comatose generalizations;
that 'fuckery' that steals away common sense from ours and future generations.
You become what you give your attention to.
I spend my divine currency of kindness in loving you.
You are apart of God's divine plan.
He wakes you and me up each and everyday.
In my soul's faith I know that everything will be okay.
This is why I continue to pray.
Because I choose to see the beauty and best in people.
This keeps me upbeat.
Because I try to imagine what God sees in my fellow soul siblings.
And from that cosmic perspective;
I go about my business.
For father God is in charge of each and every plot twist.


(C) copyrighted

A poem about humans respecting each other..

“Son,
Bite your nails and make them rough like the burliness set beside you.
Don’t let tears fall like streaked sweat along the fabric of your skin
And speaking of your skin,
Let it dry;
Dry it with the blood of your heart so that men will nod and boys will bow to your feet,
The same way a curtain sways at the touch of strong wind
Let your strong limbs, your embedded masculinity rise within
And roar.
Take down all the boys and rise
Like a man.
Let your hands clash
Like a man.
Let your emotions die and your body live
Like a man.

Stop laying your hands on your hips while you speak.
Stop allowing your razor to cut strands off your legs.
A real man has hair,
Hair that flows like strings across the frame of your limbs
And your sides,
The space between your thighs
And speaking of which,
Let your emotions flow inside a woman for her to love you.
Love a woman like the woman she is,
And be a man like the man you are.
But certainly,
Most importantly,
Act. Like a man.

Show her what’s between your legs
And love what’s between hers.
She won’t refuse
And she won’t cut back.

She loves men.
She only loves men.
She is a girl,
And she’ll only love you if you act like a man.
You must act like a man.
You must dress like a man.
Strip off the layers of feminine odor
Take off that necklace,
Take out that mindset
Undress from that dress of indecisiveness
And appreciate what I gave you.
Clean up those cosmetics.
Clean up your act.
Quit quietly cooking that head of yours
Into the land of ridiculousness.
Change what those demons have created
And act. Like a man.”

But father,
What is a man.
Is a man someone who differs from those with different heads.
Is a man someone who keeps his hair short but his ego long.
Is a man someone who dwells in their own glory but refuses to acknowledge the worth of others.
Is a man tall?
Is a man short?
Is a man big?
Is a man small?
Is that a man who walks the streets in pursuit,
A cigarette dangling from his dead fingers.
Is that a man who feels the soft skin of a flower
Yet too ignorant and too lazy to care for it
So they pluck her while she’s still pretty
Then when bored, leave her to dry in the midst of a desert.
Is that a man who dares call a woman prude upon refusal
Yet easy when she accepts.
Is that a man who lingers on his own masculinity,
Entrapped in his bodily scent of hormones
Yet too ignorant to recognize the life he could have
If, just if,
He gave a look into the reflection of the water
Just to see himself for once.
Is that a man who makes false claims
Yet lives in complete hypocrisy.
Is that a man who has the nerve to defend lost causes when a woman speaks the truth?
Then I am not a man.
I am not a man.
I never was.

I never was confined in the stereotype you set aside for me,
Nor was a piece in the patriarchy
That was once built with honor
Now wrecked with the tomb of lies that all who were the norm,
Remain the norm,
And stay the norm,
Holding power over all for their own benefit.

I never was a man,
Never like a man,
And never will be a man.

If a man is all you told me to be,
If a man is what all you claim,
If a man is what you took from your father
And gave to your own,
Then I am not that man.

They weren’t demons.
They were me.

I.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
On my forehead the same hands
That have helped
Bury a million
Unborn babies in the lush green
Fields that the brochures display

II.
The young bride enters her groom's house
Her alta colored feet leave red
Bloodstains in her wake
A young girl trails behind
places her little feet
in the same prints and
Waits

III.
The gotar mali has her arms tied above
Her head and her legs splayed blood
Drops from her body and the officials
Frame it in a green background and
call it a flag, call it a country, call it a
Dying woman's honor

IV.
My mother places a dot of
Vermillion
on my forehead
And I wonder if it's way of
branding
Women with an honor
they did not ask for
And cannot control

Inspired by the brave women warriors of Bengal.

I am afraid that the next thing I give
Will be the last thing I had left.
I don’t exactly have an inventory.
I haven’t checked in recently
To see how my stocks are doing.
I put my money on the wind
And the howling wolves
And the impossible way that two people’s bodies
Fit together sometimes.
I am afraid that I do not have enough left
That is just me,
That came from something that I am.
I worry that every time I open my eyes and ears
I breathe in other peoples’ lives
And other peoples’ stories
And now when I let something out
My stories and theirs get jumbled
Like the air in our dead end lungs.
And every kiss I give to you
Is a thousand words
That I can no longer say
And every wink is a painting that I won’t finish.
Every word I give to you
Is another that I can’t have for myself.
I don’t want to be selfish
I want to be able to give it away,
But I have seen too many women that I loved
Give themselves to people
Who collected all of their kisses and words in greedy fists
And never gave anything back.
I want to keep the unloveable,
Untamable, inimitable part of me
Close and secret.
So that when you break my heart
I won’t have to limp away
Missing a leg,
Missing an exit strategy,
Trying to fill the hole
I dug.

You can choose to listen & react to the negativity, or you can just live freely and wait for them to see that they were wrong.
Actions are always louder than reactions.

When you want to be something, be it.
Don't complain about not being it.
That is all I will say on that subject.

You want to motivate a Man?
Give him a beautiful woman and he'll go the extra mile to make sure she's happy
Even when he has no will to carry on, the thought of her hair swaying back and forth and the gleam of her eyes shining back at him will suddenly give him the urge
To move forward
Man's World is a myth
Women have mental control on us when we're deep in the potion
It only makes sense
Why would we be unchanged by something so beautiful?
God knew what he was doing when he created Man and Woman
I'd rather have her smile on my mind all the time
Than the repugnant trash that's going on in the world
Women give life, they give hope in life
They most importantly- keep A man from losing himself and keep the Human race alive

She's keeping my sanity alive.

Beau Scorgie Apr 17

We threw a mattress
in the back of my car.
Some clothes.
Some food.

I packed eight books.
He packed a skateboard.

We drove along
the freeway
behind a car
the same as my mother's.

I thought about when she left
and all the tears I know she cried
driving away,
northward bound.

She drove for five days.
That's a lot of tears
and math
I can't do.

The driver had the same tanned skin
my mother has now,
and sun-bleached caramel hair
I imagine she would have too
had she not preferred
the taste of licorice.

I've been reading
the subtle art
of not giving a fuck

and too many a-fucks
I've given
about her leaving.

Let me record
the last fuck given
in poetry
and move on.

So my love and I
drove on,
together.

We're best together.

What has transpired
Has inspired
My desire
To rise higher and higher and higher
Then it ever has before.
Through the door
Clothes on the floor
Bodies squirming
Stomachs churning
Sweet spots pouring
Our bodies have cum to an end
A mess we tend
Then jump in bed
I rest my head
On your breast
Heart in my chest
Feeling unrest
In a way I can't detest
You see, you are the best
Friend I've ever had
So now I'm glad
We know each other through-and-through
No awkward blues
After the fun that we do.
You think I'm joking, but its true
I love you.

What has inspired me throughout life is the women I've been with. Not the sex, but the feeling of having a companion to be able to both love and be loved by. It teaches you a lot about yourself when you are caring for another in such a tender way.
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