Murdered by Media

She curses her reflection
and howls at her genealogy
for her wide forehead
and her chunky upper lip
she dyes, not just her hair
so shes beyond
the blackness in her curls
seeping slowly
into her veins
poisoning her mind
her fragile little heart
from the burden of ugly
her body mummified
by the latest diet
and her soul
her poor, poor soul
a prisoner of her woes
little did she know
she had died
long before
died the moment she saw
herself in that mirror
she died for beauty
thinking beautiful she will never be


I see beauty in my scars.



Beauty.. I’ve thought about this long and hard and arrived at the following conclusion:

Beauty is what I see with my eyes, not what the world defines for me.

I see beauty in a heart that is shattered, broken, and yet beats with undying hope and faith.

I see beauty in a child’s hand reaching out instinctively for its parent for security.

I see beauty in the tears a daughter sheds for her  parents, the depth of love her heart holds for them and how it aches with the realization that some day she will have to part from them..

I see  beauty in a woman’s inherent desire for a child despite her barrenness.. And how her eyes sparkle with tears as she glances at a mother walking her baby in a stroller.

I see beauty in the brave soul that picks up its broken pieces after falling at every fork in the road and continues to walk with its head held up high, taking challenges head on — without waver or even the slightest sense of defeat.

I see beauty in my scars.