And the circles that I use to cover with makeup
                have gotten so dark that not even "industrial strength" concealer covers them up anymore.

     it doesn't even make a dent.

Those purple circles
Under my eyes
Marks of sleeplessness
I can't disguise
Concealer only covers
The layer of skin
But underneath the makeup
There's still weary eyes within
I haven't slept
Not a wink of rest
Ever since you came
And made this mess.
*Sweet Dreams

Light brownish **** lip stain to match the season,
Gold eye liner to make my brown eye color lighter,
Concealer and foundation to even out the skin tone,
bronze pink blush to add a bit of color and define my cheek bones,
Medium brown eyebrow pencil to perfect my eyebrows,
A stripped black and tan shirt with a brown scarf, blue jeans and black boots;
Hair is in a delicate curly updo so that my face gets more attention,
Burberry perfume to bring a soft delicate trail of her aroma,
my make up looks natural yet it adds color and defines the beautiful features of my face.
I do this not to cover my flaws,
not because I am insecure,
not for attention,
Simply because I want to pamper myself.
simply because I deserve to look pretty.
simply because I want to be as beautiful on the outside that I am on the inside.

Handbag~ 1994
exam timetable
£5 from my Mum
shiny key for the front door
fresh-mint chewing gum

Handbag~ 1998
keys for work
keys for home
£20 and a bit of change
photo of my best mate
and a bloke that's twice my age
lipstick~ lacy knickers
condoms~ ID card
ticket for a bus to town
UV sparkly stars

Handbag~ 1999
keys for work
keys for home
spare key for his flat
condoms~ contraceptive pills
No.7 powder-ivory/matt
VISA/Delta debit card
paper
gel ink pens
number of a bloke
who says our love
will never end

Handbag~ 2000
keys for work
keys for home
key for the gas meter
Teletubbies picture book
list of baby-sitters
new mobile phone
herbal teething gel
lipstick~ Anadin
vanilla impulse body spray
children's Nurofen
photo of my baby boy
really tiny socks
under-eye concealer
secret stash of chocs

Handbag~ 2002
keys for work
keys for home
pull-back-and-go car
baby wipes
mobile phone
estate agents' cards
picture of my little boy
list of things to do
Boots own brand pregnancy test
both windows coloured blue

Handbag~ 2005
keys for home
card from work
tissue full of tears
photo of my boy in school
that shows his gappy teeth
photo of my baby girl
and one of both of them
a ring that used to be my Mum's
Pro-Plus~ Diazepam

Handbag~ 2009
keys for work
keys for home
one SLIM~FAST bar
one Cadbury's wrapper
Haribo~ Calpol~ tissues
assorted Disney plasters
treasured stones~ special shells
sand and bits of twig
money to buy ice creams
photos of my kids

"She puts too much make-up"
That's what they say.

They don't know that..
Foundation is for her pale skin
Concealer is for her stressed eyebags
Lipstick is for her sad lips
and eye-shadow is for her dead eyes

Is she conceited or she just hides everything well?
Think again.

My sadness gets up at 2:00 am
Then again at 4:00
And 5:30
And 6:45
Then 7:00am

After the snooze alarm goes off
My sadness wears concealer and mascara to make it
feel awake
and pretty

My sadness hides behind a joke, a smile, a laugh
My sadness is scared of my happiness, who
Stops by once in a while
but just for a quick hello

My sadness doesn’t show through the way
I pull myself together in the morning like nothing is wrong
Or when people ask “how are you?” And replies “I’m good!”
People don’t see my sadness in the stories I tell,
the schoolwork I do, the advice I give them for their problems

My sadness doesn’t show up like other’s sadness
It doesn’t hold its head down in the hallway,
or sleep in until 12, it doesn’t go days without eating,
and it doesn’t try to keep happiness in a locked door

No.

My sadness only shows through the poetry I write
The music behind my earbuds
The short stream of tears when the doors are
closed and the windows are open hoping that just one
small bit of happiness will come inside and stay for longer
than a joke, a laugh, a smile.

My sadness stays in the shower longer than usual,
gets angry a little too easily, and cries a little too much
when watching The Notebook.
It doesn’t look like sadness or walk like sadness or talk like sadness
But that doesn’t mean it isn’t sadness.

No.

You can’t see my sadness.
It doesn’t show like a person with a
broken leg and crutches
You don’t take one look at it and know that
It is crippled and broken down

No.

My sadness is like cancer
You don’t know it’s there until you strip me down
peel back the layers of my skin
to see that I’ve been breathing an air like smoke
that’s caused a growth in my lungs and heart so
that each breath I take, each drop of blood that flows
through my veins feels like a weight on my chest that
can only be lifted with you laying beside me and holding
me until I feel as light as a feather souring through the wind
after finally break free of its bird. Its burd-en.
The thing that’s been holding it down, keeping it from doing
the impossible. But, possibly you can’t lift that weight.
possibly it’s only me that can lift that weight.

Possibly it’s been me the whole time.
Possibly I am the one that kicks happiness out the door
When it stops by because I don’t see happiness
Without you here
But how dare I place the image of happiness
Only in your presence when happiness can fall
In from any joke, or laugh, or smile
And happiness can stay past the sunset
Because you can still see happiness when all you feel
Is the darkness
Happiness can come in when the door
Is bolted shut because happiness doesn’t
Ask if it can come over
Happiness waltzes right in, unannounced, but
Always welcome.
So the next time my sadness is sitting at the table
And we are having a cup of coffee,
And happiness runs through the door
I will show sadness the exit
And then turn to happiness and say “it is great to
See you, please stick around for a while.”
And later when it gets up to leave
I will grab it by the arm and hold
onto it tighter than you ever held me.

We waste our lives
chasing some false ideology
of what it means to be beautiful
dressing ourselves up
in the latest paper doll clichés
of magazine quotes
of how to look like a “10”

hoping to see something
other than our own reflection
in the mirror
hoping that a layer
of white washed lies
and vibrant coats painted
over fabricated truths

will somehow make us feel...
how do they say it
on the West Side?  
“I feel pretty and witty and...”
isn’t it somewhere around here
that the truth gets lost
where we allow the definition of beauty
to get painfully distorted

that we hand over our paychecks
and self-esteem
for the latest cure and concealer
to that ugly feeling
we get when we are left by ourselves
to face the doubts of our truths

and what is that truth?  

how was beauty defined
before we had a vocabulary of deception
before we danced to radio jingles
and sang along with our self doubts
what did beauty look like
when it was out there
alone in the dark
what was it that was beautiful
before we opened our eyes...

what was beautiful then
is still the same
as what is beautiful now...

and it is nothing we can define
with our words
or our books
or the noises we make when we speak
it is nothing we can see
with our eyes

it is as simple
as it is easy

it is there inside all of us
beneath our clothes
and inside our skin
and protected by our bones
and our marrow

living and blooming
every time we exhale
and every time we inhale

the truth of what it means
to be beautiful

is in just

being

and this truth is sung  
with every beat of our hearts

Celebrating an identity in a gender
Oh! The lipstick,
Oh! The spanx
To God I give thanks!

Being female,
What a blessing,
Even though, I've got to tell you,
These gender roles can be depressing

Nothing like dressing up for a date,
Don't forget, you must be royally late!
Pile on the mascara, concealer and lipstick
Hey mama, don't forget to pull down your dress a bit
You almost forgot to reveal your cleavage!

Please, by all means, empty that pretty little head of yours
Of any intelligence or reason
Girl, your only purpose is for a man's pleasing!
Now, get to that appeasing
You shouldn't be wasting all your time teasing.

Oh, mama, cry it out
Weep and pout
Gossip with your girls
Reject that pretty girl...
Who does she think she is, being naturally beautiful?
She doesn't deserve friends
If she needs support, she has an abundance of men who can pretend.

Go ahead now, pull up that mini skirt more
What do you think he's looking for?
Do you think he cares about your brain?
You're insane!
Do you think he treasures your heart?
Oh please, don't fall apart.
Do you think he'll still love you when you're old?
What, do you think men fall in love with your soul?

In celebration of being female
Let me spare you some advice
Love yourself with all you've got
And please, stop begging for it (love)
Stop showing your legs for it
If you cultivate dignity for yourself and
Love yourself
True love is guaranteed forever.

Damsel in this dress
is a damsel in distress she just using clothes to cover up the post traumatic stress,

but they barely cover anything--
her lady parts at best,
she attracts hood ****** but they barely give her thanks when she gobble up their ***** in her head is regret,

her past is her future so abuse is where she heads-- wears her heart on her sleeve so she empty in her chest

wearing make up just to make up for the confidence she lacks
  
and I admit I looked back when you walked by in that sun dress
I knew your name around the block bout how you ****** the meanest ****,

the greatest *** and I imagined if I knew the words for access words to claim your assets dinner did I have to invest-- from a glance,
 
and at a simple glance back,
to advance the fact still remain man plans to slay that,

she knows it; the shades on her face tells poem how bright lies jaded minds and money bust her open so who's the poet--
but we judge off her appearance,
 
and lose our morals,
when she throw it back aren't we daring; but aren't we caring making compliments and swearing,
smearing make up on our ugly truth
conceal,
conceal,
concealer,

you a bad *****,
another body is you willing?
but to her its more than *** its the embrace its not the feeling,

her innocence is safest and awakened when she feels it reminded of the time her boyfriend lied, as he took ***.

In these predicaments she says its innocent;
he loves me,

that's after broken rib number 5 she says; he loves me,

that's after **** kit the doctor swab;
he says I'm worthy,

that's after black eye number 9;
he says he trust me,
he trust me,
he trust me,
He trust me,
He Trust me,
He Trust Me,
HE TRUST ME,

and he never means to hurt me.

Problem is my novel is too common,
I'll never share his name cause his name is not the problem,

he don't deserve my shine or fortune to be acknowledged:

Ms. *******, control your hatred, stedfast
my mind is changing-- stop judging demons,
Contrast.

I tend to shy away from makeup
I rarely pick up spray or brush
My heart is in flesh beating
and will one day turn to dust

I don't want to put forth creme facade
so you grimace when it rains
the trails of salt from filmy tears
are all that streak my face

If foreign objects draw you
jeweled tones upon the eyes
I do not fault your fancy tastes
or call concealer lies

But love is not burst into fire
by the curving of a kohl stick
And cheeks that redden with a kiss
are all that I would wish
to feed the flame upon the wick
that brightens and brings higher
two souls too bright to miss

I remember the first time
that I was called pretty.
I was eight years old.
I remember feeling
a bubble of insecurity
hover around me,
like an ant
under a microscope.
At eight years old,
I had experienced
my very first wave
of expectations of women
in a male dominated society.
I had no idea
that would be the first
of many by the time
I reached womanhood.
I was just a child.
I loved playing in the dirt,
and capturing bull frogs.
I was a girl
who played like a boy.
I never thought I was pretty,
not because I had
low self esteem,
but because
I was eight years old.
I was to young
to have pretty
wrapped up in my identity.
Fast forward
eight more years.
I am sixteen now.
I am no longer
playing in the dirt,
or capturing bull frogs.
I am painting my nails
bright pink,
and dying my hair
every two weeks.
I am trying to be pretty.
I am no longer
feeling the bubble of insecurity.
I am living in it
twenty four seven.
I am always concerned
with how I look,
how I act,
and what I say.
I am a girl
who is no longer a tomboy.
I am just a girl.
I no longer know
who I am,
because I am
not allowed
to be who I am.
I am expected
to sit quietly
in the corner,
straightening my hair,
perfecting my makeup,
so that a boy
who loves my body
can tell me he loves me,
and make me his wife.
Fast forward
4 more years.
I am twenty now.
I am numb
to the insecurity.
I am now expected
to live in a suburb,
raise three kids,
clean the house,
love my husband,
and my white picket fence.
I am just another girl
who is seen as pretty.
I am living a lifeless life.
I am at a crossroads
to either stay down
under the weight
of societies expectations,
or burn my picket fence
right down to the ground.
I am remembering
that tomboy I was
before I was called pretty.
I can either reconnect
with her fierceness,
or hide beyond a mask
of beige concealer.
I can either be a dove,
or I can be a phoenix.
I think
the choice is obvious.

Girl,
You’ll be a woman
Soon, so start
Straightening your hair
So it’s smooth and shiny
And cake on your cumbersome
Concealer because
Acne is for boys.
Browse bras in Victoria’s Secret
The ones with plentiful padding,
Push-up, so your cleavage
Screams: “I am a grown lady”
Even though you’re only thirteen.
Trade your sweats for slimming
Jeans that squeeze, skin-tight
Telling you to take a trot to trim
Your waist because you weigh
More than a delicate number.

Hometown
  Heartbreak
    You wonder how much you can take
         Couldn't fathom what you do
     He left you to start anew
The dishes pile up
   Even though you haven't been hungry
You wait for the call
   To fly out and make money
LA for a week
You live day to day like the rest of us
I see past your concealer
You go back and its mixed love

There's a tenderness you've known
You know it best when its fading
You just wanna feel at home
But there's no escaping

     You've gotten used to the names and how mean they can be
    They take who you are in scenes too seriously
  But there's some things you can't help
You've loved and you've lost and protected yourself
       And through it all you've stayed who you began as
   And you still will if it doesn't pan out

       Looking for that one unbreakable connection
  You just want to feel true love
You still believe with every wrong step and misdirection
*Even pornstars fall in love

'Look at me'*
She spat at the mirror.
'What's wrong with you?'
'Everything is wrong.'
She stares at herself and wrinkles her nose in disgust.
'My hair is limp, my eyes look dead, I'm gaining wrinkles and I'm getting fatter.'
She sighed and frowned hard at herself.
'You're very ******* yourself don't you think? You have positive qualities inside and out.'
She stared into her own eyes with a venomous glare.
'No. I don't. I'm unpredictable and unpleasant and...'
'And...?'*
Her eyes welled up.
'Different.'
'You have a mental illness... You cannot help that.'
Her face turned from the mirror wanting to smash the image of her face into a million pieces.
'At least if I were beautiful on the outside it'd be different to how I feel inside.'
'Well how do you feel inside?'
'Misunderstood, abnormal, confused, different and ugly, very very ugly. I wish it were as easy to fix a personality disorder as it is to fix a blemish.'
She avoids her reflection as she leaves the bathroom and continues on with her day.

How stunning
Can a single,
Lone human being be
With skin so smooth,
Flawless
Like a stone
Washed over and perfected
From what seems like
Years,
Blossoming in all sorts
Of colors
Like the vibrant reds
The same shade
As the most adorable blush
One I'm unable to decipher
Whether it is
A natural beauty
Or a masqued era
Shadowing eyes
Behind the truth,
What lies just below the surface,
Of what you think you see.
Your lips stick to what you're saying
Concealing what you're so afraid of
What you're trying to hide
The very foundation
Of who you are.
The smile you show,
Gleaming at the world around you,
To them,
May be completely normal,
Absolutely genuine.
But I know you,
And that air of confidence
Comes with it,
Much more consequence
Because,
What you never learned for yourself
While you were
Too busy
Primping your hair
And checking your nails
Was to focus
On what was truly beautiful.
So you spent endless money
Crafting a perfect face
For imperfect people
To impress those
Same people you seem to hate
For no good reason
And what killed me
Is that what you forgot
I noticed while you were with those who didn't relate much
Was that your mind was the most beautiful part you
And it never had on makeup.

For her art was all the colors,
Present in the makeup pallete,
Erasing her pain like cleansers,            
And making her life go all set,  
So ready to be brushed up with some makeup,
To meet with her all time pain healer,
By letting her face go through a little scrub,
She covered all the dark secrets like a concealer,  
She had a past darker than her smokey eyes,  
With eyeshadow blended so perfectly,
She looked so pretty and wise,
Killing people with her charm and spectacularity,
By using her lipstick dipped in blood red,
And like a sharp weapon she carried her contoured face,                                                   With her lashes so widespread,
She turned into a strong woman who got over all her depressing days.
            
                -Faeza Kazim

Dear Little Girl,
Putting on that shirt,
Wishing your body was different.

Dear little girl,
Trying new concealer,
Wishing your skin was clearer.

I see you,
Watching the others,
wishing you got the same attention.
Babygirl, it isn't a competition.

Little girl,
Close your eyes,
Open your ears and listen.

You are a beauty
You are a beauty

Don't be insecure;
Be assured.
We've all felt this way,
It still goes on today.

(You are a beauty,
You are a beauty)

Your heart, it beats for a reason:
You are a work of art.
(Beauty, beauty)

Dear little girl,
Wear what you'd like,
Love your body the way it is.
(Beauty, beauty)

Dear little girl,
Wear make up if you'd like,
But know your skin is perfect.

You are a beauty,
You are a beauty!

Don't be insecure,
Be assured.
We've all felt this way,
It still goes on today.
(Beauty, beauty)

Fingerprints on your skin;
Of the creator man.

Your heart, it beats for a reason:
He made you a work of art.

(Beauty, beauty)

Don't be insecure,
Be assured.
We've all felt this way,
And it still goes on today.
(Beauty, beauty)

You are a beauty,
You are a beauty!

I wear concealer to hide the dark bags under my eyes
To make them seem less dangerous
To hide the imperfections I find in myself
The flaws I want to break
There's more to it than beauty

When I was a baby I was given a doll
It was pretty though it was small
I thought I wanted to look like her when I was tall
In kindergarten I took dance
I had to learn to wear lipstick as well as my stance
I had to look good to be given a chance
In sixth grade I had a flaw
Acne began and others saw
Kids in my class began to haw
I went home and told my maw
She gave me concealer and a bra
In highschool makeup took half the day
Just to hear nice things people would say
When asked I'd say it's just for play
I didn't have time, it was late
I had to be out the door by eight
No one called me pretty, I would never find a mate
Something better happened, I had time to create

2am
I'm addicted to heartache
The kind that rips you apart inside
Leaves you shaking
Tears streaming down your face

3am
The moon bright in your eyes
Sparkling behind the moisture
Sobs wrack my body
The stars seem to be falling from the sky
This feeling is what I know best

4am
All is quiet
The night doesn't make a sound
Theres nothing left to come out
Tears have dried
And my mind is numb
I feel nothing
Hollow and empty
This feeling is all too hauntingly familiar

5am
The morning approaches
And I am still awake
Staring at the wall
Nothing left

6am
Time to get up
Plaster a smile on my face
Smear concealer under my eyes
And pretend like those dark circles aren't there

9am
Everyone is oblivious
But I know
That tonight
I'm going to go through it all again

beauty does not come
in lipstick tubes,
in concealer,
in eyeshadow
and liquid eyeliner.

beauty isn't
perfection,
beauty isn't
fashion,
beauty isn't
grabbing everyone's attention.

beauty hides in
the soul of she who faced her fears
beauty hides in
the heart of he who is brave
beauty hides in
a joyful heart
beauty hides in
brokenness made new.

To you ugly means unpopular
To you ugly means make-upless
To you ugly means not into the same stuff you like
To you ugly means different
Well to me ugly
Means being popular and only caring about that
And flaunting it
And shoving it in the faces of those who are unloved
Stepping on people to get yourself to the top
To me ugly means wearing makeup on your soul
Covering up your true identity with metaphorical makeup so much thicker than the foundation and concealer and eye shadow I don’t wear
To me ugly means liking things ONLY because everyone else does
To me ugly means being a monotonous replica of everyone else, just another plastic Barbie doll with zero values and zero love in your heart, not being YOU
To me ugly, is telling someone else they are ugly.


REPOST if you have a DIFFERENT DEFINITION OF UGLY

I stare at myself in the mirror a long time
Wondering why I'm here and not out living my prime
The girl under this make-up, lost and forgotten, she always wears this mask that covers her mass destruction
She destroyed herself to make herself feel loved
She starved herself
She purged herself of everything society saw bad
She covered up her insecurities with concealer and mascara
She put on a smile to cover her frown
She covered every bit of herself up and suffocated her slowly
Now the girl in the mirror, she's always remembered, but the girl under her body and personality mask is now lost and forgotten

One day in an office somewhere,
On someone else’s time,
Someone had an idea -
They were looking for ways to make up money
Out of thin air.
Now this someone somewhere was a man
For want of a better name, let’s call him Dan
Dan’s idea was simple, it was this:
Let’s start making make-up aimed at kids!
Not kids like students, or as in school kids,
But real kids, you know, of 9,8,7, even 6!
Infants, toddlers, babies, that’s the biz!
We’ll be the market leader in make-up bibs!
Tell them they get purple potts when telling fibs
But try our concealer - Mum won't even notice!
We’ll get some newborn WAG to celebendorse it
And call it something aspirational like, Babywish
In fact, before 12 months they’re really not all that clever
So how about “With Babywish u2 can live 4ever!”

if i stopped eating
people would compliment me
on how thin i am
and when they saw the bruises
they pressed their mouths
shut tight
and just joked about
how clumsy i could be
with their easily uneasy smiles.
i don’t know if they
just didn’t see
or if they just weren’t
looking.
introducing him
to my friends was like
living in a ****** part of town,
having someone over
and hearing the racket of gunfire
outside of your window
and then having them say to you,
“oh, listen,
you can hear the fireworks
from here!”
and being too embarrassed
to correct them.
so maybe i’m not sure
if i believe in fireworks;
bombs are too often
mistaken for them.
but i can distinguish the difference
now, i can, and i will not
teach my daughters that when
he pushes you down in the dirt
and pulls on your pigtails
it’s because he likes you.
because when i covered up
those bruises on my body
in too-light concealer
like i’d never learned how to cover up
love-bites and tired eyes,
there was a voice in the back of
my mind that was telling me
that he only pushed me
down because he loved me.
i do not want a voice
inside my daughter’s heads
that sounds like me,
telling them that they deserve
their split lips.
i will tell my daughters to wear
boxing gloves over their manicures,
i will tell my daughters that
“love” is not an excuse,
i will tell my daughters that no one
is allowed to give you
a black eye and expect you
not to punch back harder,
i will tell my daughters
that you are not weak for getting hurt
because the weak ones
are those who let their anger
and insecurities
manifest themselves
in fists and words.
i will tell my daughters
the difference between bombs and fireworks,
i will tell them that they may sound
the same sometimes,
but fireworks don't ****
innocence.

Alright page…okay, fine, I admit it;
I've been avoiding you.

Your face, beautifully smooth and innocent, reminds
me I have yet to find the time to paint it…so:

I apologise,
to the eyes I should have coated in the eyeshadow of
romance (scorned, loved, lost, lived)
to the cheeks I should have blushed with eroticism
to the ears I should have punctured with anger and
passion and vanity
to the skin I should have smeared foundation over: covering
bad rhymes like concealer over spots (still there, just less obvious)
to the lips which I should have animated with laughter and
sarcasm.

I apologise,
to the body of the poem which never:
Felt the stanza of a corset
Felt the **** lace of an internal rhyme
Felt the bra of a title
Or the shimmering dress of a metaphor

Or the thrill of removing every last bit.

I've missed a million date nights, and I
want to try to fix it.

Please? Despite our marriage of minds, we have drifted, I'd like permission to take our hands on a date once more
Letting the wine of ideas pour between
Sighs of Sibilance
complete contentment

**Tasting the catharsis of your lips