This is for a friend whose Facebook status on the day after the sickest **** case in Delhi 2012 was,
"thank god I'm ugly,
No boy wants to be seen with me,
Men look through me,
I'm invisible,
There's nothing appealing about my body but I'm happy,
I'm not beautiful so thank you god for the freedom you have bestowed upon me,
I WALK FREE"
7 LIKES, 2 shares and 4 comments
Her father: my daughter is the prettiest
Her brother: there's no-one prettier than my princess
Me: its not about the face my friend, animals don't know the difference, we live in the world where even goats and pigs serve as *** slaves + sperms don't seek paradise
She: read between the lines

This is for the high school hotties and plastic beauties who are miles away from the reality,
This is for the teenage wankers and middle aged ****** whose definition of beauty is ****
This is for the poets who use pulchritudinous for a woman's body and immaculate for her skin
This is for the ad agencies who try to convince us that being not fair is being ugly
This is for the authors of bed time stories where ugly characters don't get a kiss from the prince charming
This is for the walking x-ray machines who don't know my friend but know what the size of her ******* is


This is for Facebook cuties and instagram ducklings tormenting my friend with their selfies
This is for the movie industries that keep telling my friend that she'll remain a sidekick
This is for the daily soaps selling stories of moms who do not exist
This is for the celebrities,
Lost in the labyrinth of self obsession
Who cannot face themselves without their masks on
They will never find their way out of it

This is for the bullies who never spared her a peaceful stroll
This is for the organizers of the beauty pageant never held for the soul

My friend was lost in the immense chasm of despair
Scars on her wrists screamed how much she hated herself
Bloodshot eyes sang tales of her sleepless nights
But, she gave birth to her new self everytime she failed to die
Like, three failed suicide attempts made her fall in love with herself
These days, she holds her breath for seconds just to make herself believe that her life is not worthless

This is for the world holding onto fleeting beauty and letting go of everything worth grasping
MY Friend Is Beautiful
Her beauty does not give pleasure to your senses
Nothing pulchritudinous and not immaculate
Its something intangible, something only visible to a good soul- something that will never fade- something real
My friend is beautiful

Seed in stony soil blooms my soul;
Pulchritudinous passionate paeony

3,650 days since the first time ive heard her name you think within that time frame i would know everything about her

but here's something i just noticed she's 5'4 but walks like she 4'5

its a walk with no purpose other than to get away from here

she has eyes that could light up the sky but they never leave the ground

all because 1 boy ruined her perception of beauty

it would explain why she shrugged off every compliment i gave

i tried my hardes to convicne her she was beautiful but she was convinced she was anything but

I am gonna give it one last try so you can see yourself through my eyes

just listen

theres a girl with fine hair the color of the suns glimmering rays just before sunset

with eyes so captivating that if you were handed a map , you would throw it away cuz theres no other place youd rather be lost

A smile that would make a ****** drop his spoon becuase he realized he's missing out on a greater high

lips that probably taste so sweet it makes sugar taste bitter

a body that curves in all the right places it makes a model seem like a manikin

but shes more than just eye candy

she has such a big heart because she does so much for everyone else and expects nothing in return

she has such a sense of humor that she'll laugh at a joke from a child or from a man with his mind in the gutter

she makes me believe God IS TRULY SELFLESS becuase i wouldve kept an angel like her in Heaven

So maybe youre right youre anything but beautiful because beautiful is such an original word to describe such a unique person like you

You're stunning

You're miraculous

You're drop dead goregeous

You're courageous

You're charismatic

You're Pulchritudinous , i didnt even know what the hell that meant until i realized it defined you

I wanna see you walk like you do after you just proved me wrong not like your 5'4 but like your 6'5

and after readign this you better call rehab because all i want is to see your smile

and you better realize that youve been looking in a mirror of lies , holding on to what you shouldve let go and that you finally realize what youre truly worth .. to me .... and everyone else around you

start a poem;
with what?
I choose a word and think: I always start poems
just like that;
I want to be more abstract
and tralala pulchritudinous --
there's a word for you; I used a thesaurus,
how phoney
how transposed and disconnected from my heart
I write

and I know I can do better than that
than this
yeah, I know that
and I'm a strong believer of
art
creating itself
when it's meant to be created
and that sometimes it's just not meant to be
but when there is so much
filling the heart with wistful agony
and agonizing wistfulness,
creating something pretty
feels pretty good; and you'd think
there'd ought to be something
to write about
if I can feel this much inside of me
if it's that heavy...
I guess
what I'm really trying to say
is that
I'm afraid.
but that's not good enough, is it?
I want to write wilting lilies and papercuts
and stubbed toes and a bit of rage and longing, but mostly
I want to write the truth
and the truth is
I'm afraid
that I'm not enough;

but I know, I know,
that's not good enough, is it?

nothing is trite, nothing is optional
waited and waited and to the heavens
no prying notion, not even a fear escapes
the mind's tricks or worry that phrases
could be repetitive-

exuding the forces of the world
legs and arms and eyes and mind
there are not dactyls to measure
such words, when the words do not
yet exist.

There is no unfinished ends that need soldering,
I sent the letters in my last life. The one where upon me
You crept up and looked at the chasm and held the rocks
From my pockets in your hands, and took off my robe.
I don't even know how long I'd been staring into the deep
Insanities of The Plateau, counting sheep, and hedging bets,
Slowly going completely into the Pacific, rising and bowing
Inside the blooming ripples of those fourteen foot waves that
Never made the break wall. Maybe it was I colliding with
Those enormous ships of victory I envied that bore the flags of
China and tore away from the coastline.

I don't care what you say, I believe it was you calling.
Beethoven could have heard the call.
In fact, he did. It's the odes of joy.
Don't get hung up on improper word use,
There will be time for us to write each other's sentences,
Build one another's dictionaries, and bend who's and what's, where's,
How's, and why's.

What azurean universe lives in the cornucopia of pulchritudinous lumens
That shape your eyes? What language is it that spoke its creation? Teach Me the languages that breed the shaky and vibrant voices of rock and roll.
The ridges inside the tide that bring the sea life to live. I will, I will hunt Dinosaurs and Guitarasaurus Rex will hang its Ray Ban wearing head of Enormous proportions out of the deciduous treeline to dazzle us with
The gorgeousness of delta blues rock and pre-Cretaceous 50s icon pop
While we slide on the wooden floors having our sock hop.

Seussing us up into a pinwheel of onomatopoeia
And nightscape of stardust, song, and merriment.
The beginning of a memoir, the counting back of hours like
Driving with the Ferrari California's gears in reverse to shed
Off the extra mileage, or swim in salt water pools, and drink
Pink and orange aeviternal eves and the groves of lavender, lilac, and Streaming cerise bands of light entomb these two lovers in the Mesmerizing drove of morning, upon some moon-draped porch
Some Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday in
Satirical snow-covered and 50º Chicago.

Say I can play guitar and I can play guitar
But only when we're teaching we,
Sunday thru the ends of years
And the offspring of those years.
Back from the hours, unlocked by the tides, and
Hemmed to the interstices of fingertips and
Internal yearnings for olives and olive juices.
Eves, morns, and the 33 hour day.
Where in your enchanting cadence of life
All is well, extending beyond good and beyond okay:
excelsior. Since our bonds coalesced just this past Sunday.

For Saranell

You undressed me with your pulchritudinous eyes
A smirk entact on your chiseled face.

Your hands tangled in my hair
And our souls connected,
making everything else vanish for me
at that second.

A sheen of sweat covered my body
From your slow, sensual torture
Your lips exploring my body
as they nurture.

I writhe below you
making quite noises of satisfaction.
As we lay there,
Our eyes doing all the communication.

Your scents on my sheets
The moonlight on your gorgeous skin
As we lay there and worship each other
Making everything around us glint.

Your lips grazed my earlobe
making me scream,
I suddenly jolted out of it
realizing it was all just an another dream.

Irene-Spring

Like
The spring
Thy radiance
Has befallen at sunrise
On all,but pulchritudinous flowers
And in reverence for thy elegance
They spin their colors so brightly
And beguile butterflies from motley races
Together,
Like a choir,
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on petals and sepals

Thy
Benign breeze
Prance on all surfaces
Of the earth,

And
At sunshine
It poise on the wild waves
And placidly vault their prowess
To sack ;then obligatory
They croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the golden sands

At twilight
Even the vehement volcanoes
Clad themselves with serenity
With thy presence
And croon sweet birthday melodies
Penciled on the hearts of molten rocks

But
When darkness
Finally succumb twilight
Will moonlight invade their shacks
And allow the nightgale
Croon sweet melodies of birthday
Penciled on the slates of branches for thee

HAPPY BIRTHDAY SWEET HEART


IRENE-SPRING

©HISTORIAN E.LEXANO

Mount shifted-like ghouls
Risen in the dark sky's eminence
Where, there, soaring souls
Of a centre crown circumference
From out the waning moon
And of the warm nights of June --
(When the solace of the days to me
Were that of false Destiny),
Whereas I, too, worn the ring of Albatross
From pass unmitigated loss
Of a pulchritudinous lover
Whom the saintly cherubs uncover
The lacy-lilac flower of yore
Which lies, a warrior's life, no more.
Oh, quaff thy drugs in never regretting
For war as this that's worth forgetting;
Whether holy angels in these skies
Or daunted demons in disguise
As revenants, stern and severe,
Silently fume the censer here
Where the fallen brave flown to Avalon
From the dreaded dirge of Babylon
Lies fully somewhere within
As a chrysalis, a beautiful kin,
Oh somewhere within,
Somewhere within
Lies fully within
The lacy-lilac flower of yore
Which lies, a warrior's life, no more.

My mind was wandering in a dark and unkind space
There she came with the light, and a pulchritudinous face

I was doing above and beyond moving on
I wasn't sad when you were gone
I was doing fine pretending you were never mine
I wasn't scared to have you erased

When your eyes that I once described as a pulchritudinous blue
So deep and true they turned the sky green with envy
Stared at me across the room
How was I supposed to forget the lies they failed to hold?

I was happy till you came into my life
I wasn't perfect, but I didn't mind
I was a vibrant color in the spectrum of life
I wasn't meant to turn so dark as I was mixed with you

Your eyes dwell
on the frailty of my ****** structure.
Yet, you find it pulchritudinous.
What makes it?
I have no idea, what you see.

I am as reckless as a child,
but it was my sophistication
that you’ve chosen to descry.

Your hands linger on my skin,
caressing every bit of insanity
and fragility, needing leniency.
What are you sensing?
I have no idea, what you perceive.

I am as sober as the night sky
minus the stars,
but you avowed your benevolence
towards my desolation.

Hence, you hefted such joy
inflamed such felicity that was lost.
What are you begetting?
I have an idea,
reciprocation, it is.

♥

Eyes wide open, probing all your insecurities
Each pore you try not to see
Every person you try to be
Despise devotion toting "purity"
Realize an ocean of communal surety
Know you are already -
An embodiment of beauty
A guise of pulchritudinous perpetuity
We come in different forms and weights
Beauty is what we make
All pouring out from Heaven's gates
Please know what is at stake
Reject Hollywood's invitation to hate
You are something we cannot recreate

.
...
.....
........
    
                      There she was
                By serendipity's sake
                         I beheld her
             With all her glimmering rays
                 Beauteously peeking
              Just around the corner
             Grinning  with enormous
                            serenity.

                 ­  The luster about her
               Manifested her grandeur
       Across wish-washy velvet skies

                     Only to turn round
                        As to behold
               Such novelty pulchritude
          Pulchritudinous than anything
                Anything i'd ever beheld

               Than when it dawned on me
          She was discreetly decamping
                        Fading yonder
          Yonder glamorous horizons
                  Leaving me a desolate,
Down the dumps
                And a lonesome wanderer
                           Only wishing
                Ever to catch her glimpse
                              Once again.

the world can be pulchritudinous
kindness flowing through
the veins of people
acts of charity
without asking for something in return
compliments told to others
to brighten up their day
donations to fundraisers
to help those in need
the world can be evil
but let's focus on the
pulchritudinous parts of the world
otherwise we'll lose hope in
humanity
and go insane
look at the pulchritudinous
aspects of the world

A vast forest speaks to me.
Pulchritudinous trees, shrubs, and flowers.
Even the weeds are beautiful,
beautifully entertaining.
The largest tree of them all is fearful.

What has it to fear?
It can see from city to city for miles.
It hears the sounds of the earth clearly.
It can even see itself in a mirror of waves,
and in turn can be certain of it’s existence.
Regardless, it is fearful.
In retrospect, people have tried to cut it.
Not only it’s branches, or it’s leaves.
Everything belonging to the largest tree was in peril.
Even it’s thick trunk was at risk.
There is one that wants it to remain rooted.

But, the largest tree is still fearful.
It does not want that one person to expand.
It does not want the human to want other trees to be rooted,
or to assist those others in remaining so.

The tallest tree pleads:
“Don’t chop me down, please.
Oh don’t let them lean towards you,
For they WILL lean towards the sun, and you are my only sun!
It’s inevitable. One day, oh one day, I won’t be enough shade for you.
You’ll sit under the others and read your books, write your words,
whatever you do. Even if you do leave me, human, don’t chop me down.
I’ll do that myself.”

“I could never…”

The human was confused.
The tree was clearly superior to all others.
So, the human climbed.
Climbed and climbed to the very top of that tree.
From the peak, it all made sense.
Down in the shimmering water was a distorted image.
The largest tree had been looking at itself as if it were the smallest.

“I wish you could see what I see.”

beau·ti·ful
/ˈbyo͞odəfəl/
adjective

1. pleasing the senses or mind aesthetically.
"beautiful poetry"
Similar: attractive, pretty, handsome, good-looking, etc.
Opposite: ugly

2. of a very high standard; excellent.
"she spoke in beautiful english"

𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘃𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗮 𝘀𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗸𝘀 𝗹𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆.

the inside of a woman's ****** is full of verses that you'll forget your name. stop telling me that woman's fallopian tube is only the meeting place of a ***** and an egg cell because metaphors and punctuations develop there to create pulchritudinous metrical-composition.

𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘀𝗮𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝘅 𝗼𝗻𝗹𝘆 𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗮 𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗻𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗯𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗼𝗳 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆.

the moans and groans implanted on each other's ears will create proses and poetry, the handprints on the wall, the clothes you both threw on the floor, and the smiles and giggles you threw up create poetry that only you and your lover can read.

𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘁𝗲𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮 𝘄𝗼𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗮 𝗽𝗼𝗲𝘁𝗿𝘆.

                       [ the space between her thigh
                          the gap between her teeth
                             the veins on her arms
                            the marks on her belly
                         the darkness of her brows
                      and the bristle on her armpits
              i'm telling you that these are parts of poetry ]

There might be an infinte number of disparate stars and galaxies in this interminably cosmic universe,
but my sorrowful eyes will be transfixed on the most majestic star that outshines the twilight lit sky,
the pulchritudinous star that divines the derailed train of thoughts into constellations within my claustrophobic & restless mind.

the star....
that is you.