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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 ****** 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
Did you have a home once?
Was it warm and dry?
Did you eat food you chose -
not what someone left behind?

fast food remnants as
dry and hard as your life..

Did your shoes fit then?
Did your clothes?
Did they shield you
from the weather?

Perhaps they were even stylish...

Did you have a bed once
where hopeful dreams
softly danced among the covers?

Were there curtains on the windows
to keep out the stares?

Was there a night light and a lock
on the door to make you feel safe?

and...

Were you loved?

Now the ground is your bed,
the stars your night light.
You have no door to lock.

Are memories locked inside?
Do they float in dreams among the trees?

And keep your soul alive?
Your eyes smoulder with an imagination that is even bolder than I could have dreamed and colder than this toxic air we've been forced to breathe.

You write poetry across your face to form a Gas mask of rythym, blocking out the hate yet sealing in ideas that might frustrate you.

You hear the birds in the trees and you read the articles in every magazine, you take in information like the bees to the Queen.

Your thoughts radiate an aura surrounding your entire body, you bleed history and pop culture facts, you need the written word like an addict needs their cigarette packs.

You're empathetic to your core, you feel what everyone else does so you hide yourself in your mind until you can categorize the emotions from the lies.

I know you can feel the love in your heart even through all the cracks, like a weathered and torn apart roadmap but you're taped together perfectly and even with a few wrong turns you always find your way back to me.

— The End —