I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
and it fell over and over, its legs crushed with feeling.
What is beauty?
We ask ourselves as we pile powder on our face like cement over our flawed skin.
Most attribute "beauty" as a physical trait, something you are either born with
or must qualify as to achieve happiness.
I think beauty is in the scrawled message at the corner of a Post-It note shoved in your right pocket
and in the tears welling to your eyes that have not yet fallen.
I think beauty is the hair unstraightened with wide tired eyes
and collaped words stumbling over themselves.
All we know about beauty was bottle-fed to us.
As a society, we have set aside what is and isn't beautiful.
It is unattractive to have acne, obscene to have leg hair,
and a downright sin to spend less than twenty minutes on your hair each morning.
But I've counted the zits on your crumpled forehead
and wrote in the stars the strands of your hair.
Your beauty's unbroken and awesome and perfectly celestial.
I've touched a million dizzy tulips, their heads nod off to the storm and rain.
But you held me even when I was unforgiving and broke me through the icy winds.
To me, beauty is not just what encompasses us, what we are born into;
Beauty is the yet-to-come and what you've tranformed to
after moments of fading lights and sick feelings.
Beauty is weaved into our minds, where no one can touch.
It's not in our appearance, nor in our actions.
Holding yourself high isn't cutting it for me.
Beauty is intricate thoughts, what you desire and feel.
I can't see beauty until you tell me by the dying light of noon
how much you'd love to change the world with your fingertips.
I once saw a butterfly, its left wing was broken,
but I swore it was beautiful.
