I Think

I think
Therefore I am
But I think
About the am
That I have become
And wonder if
Perhaps
Maybe
Just a little
This am
That I am
Is not the am
I have always been looking for.
I think
Therefore I am
But this am
Does not really think
Not the way am
Should think
In this world
Of poisonous
Splashtastic
Aesthetic
Trends
That still the spotlight
And overshadow
The simplicity
Of beauty
Stripped back
And bare
Plain as can be
A canvas–appreciated
No need to be created.
I think
Must think
And break
Away from this
Suffocating existence
Of trend
After trend
Of fashion
Over
style
And yet…
I am one
Who cannot run away
From this decorating phase
Who itches to change
And beautify
What is…
Beauty
As is.
I think
Therefore I am
When I can bear
To strip away
From the mainstream flows
Of peacocks
And roosters
Vibrant and beautiful…
And appreciate
The simple
Gentle
Plain beauty
Of basic white.

(Sorry guys I disappeared! You know I’ve been reading over some of my old poetry and truly, I love them a lot more than the ones I write now. They say ‘writing is a way of knowing’ (quoted from Gloria Park an academic in language studies who quoted from a man called Ivanic I believe) and right now I think I’m desperately clinging on to the thoughts I had in this poem: Voices of Yesterday at the same time, I think I’m just evolving. What do you think? I’ve been through some roughish patches and life’s gotten busy and even though I want to express something, I think…I just need the time to think. I miss the dreams of my older poems oh wow there’s a title for another poem! But will it work? Haha thanks again for dropping by for a read! )

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Quote #179

From Amy Bloom…

“You are imperfect, permanently and inevitably flawed. And you are beautiful.”

[N.B.] I don’t need to explain why this is an important quote!  

Beauty Is Relative

I look at this sentence

“She is the most gorgeous of all”

And think what an overstatement that is,

That is something only in your opinion,

And I hardly share it at all,

Don’t include me in your thinking,

That this girl is the most gorgeous of all

Because really,

What is ‘gorgeous’?

What is ‘beauty’?

It is within the shape of every brow

Thick or thin,

In the lips, narrow and wide,

In cheeks,

High, low or fat,

In eyes,

Big and bright,

Small and intelligent,

Curious and brave.

What is ‘pretty’?

What is ‘attractive’?

That is which resides in the shape,

And size, and temperament

Of you and I,

Tall, thin, thick, petite,

What does it mean to be…

Someone beautiful?

Someone ugly?

Isn’t it all just relative?

The way we think?

The way I see it,

We are all someone ‘gorgeous’

A ‘beauty’ to those who matter,

Someone ‘pretty’ and ‘attractive’

No matter what imperfections

Are perceived as ‘ugly’.

So don’t include me in your thinking

That that girl is ‘gorgeous’

For though she might be

To me,

There is probably someone I think

Who is more gorgeous than that,

Even if I am the only one who thinks so,

Isn’t that all that matters to me?

Beauty is relative,

Face and otherwise,

For we cannot all be

The imaginary,

Versatile

Definition of ‘perfection’,

Beauty, after all, is merely ‘relative’.

Brighter Than The Sun.

She shone brighter than the sun,

A silhouette, black,

Against a halo of white,

Blindingly bright light.

I looked for her,

Within a sea of wandering feet,

But her trailing,

Long, beautiful silky hair,

Is the only memory left in her wake,

Teasing those who watched her leave.

She was unbreakable,

A diamond jewel,

Rough, uncarved,

Unpolishable.

She is the most desirable,

Unattainable to the lust,

And burn of first sight attraction,

Of instantaneous infatuation,

And promises of ‘I love you forever’.

Dancing in the light of this lust,

She is the gold of the eyes of dawn,

Pure and innocent,

Beauty and precious,

Only the kind and gentle,

Retribution granted and those who have pledged,

Their utmost honesty,

A fate unknown,

To the ones they cherish,

Until they die.

She was too kind,

She bled like ink on prime parchment paper,

Seeping from her gentle body,

Into the carpet,

Spreading like poison

And wildfire.

She was brighter than the sun,

With a love

That exceeded all others,

Blooming bright,

Flowering forever,

Until the end of time.

She is a spectre,

Of the next,

Too kind,

Too genuine,

Too beautiful,

Brighter than the sun girl.

I watch her fade away,

Watching over the next girl,

Sharing her love,

So far from me,

I can’t catch her beauty,

Because she’s brighter than the sun,

Uncatchable by my human hands.

The Red Fish On The Mantel:

The red fish

Sat on the mantel piece,

A gift from husband to wife.

It has gold fins,

And big red eyes,

With red-gold scales,

On all sides.

The wife placed it facing the couch,

So that she could gaze

And admire

It’s red-gold beauty.

She had a penchant

For pretty

Beautiful things,

A penchant that was

Not limited to

Just objects and clothes.

One warm autumn night,

While the husband was away,

The wife comes out of,

Her wifely clothes,

To play with pretty,

Boys and pretty toys.

She’s a beautiful woman,

Who deserves beautiful things,

But a man whose loves her,

Deserves a little more.

Whether it’s despicable,

What he does,

When he’s away,

Watching

His wife’s betrayal,

While it’s in play.

His head falls,

Cupped in his hands,

As he tries to comtemplate,

His worst mistake.

But he can’t see,

What he did wrong,

If he had done anything wrong,

To her.

And he stands,

And throws,

In menacing anger,

The remote.

When he returns home,

She thinks nothing has changed,

And for a moment,

He thinks so too.

She doesn’t do anything,

Out of place,

She doesn’t around him,

As though she should be cautious,

She just leans up and kisses his cheek,

With all her love and warmth,

Just like always.

It had never seemed so bleak,

His beautiful, perfect marriage.

He should have realised,

That his wife,

Loved him for his beauty,

And because he gave her beautiful things,

Like the fish on the mantel,

Red,

Red-gold,

Golden.

To her,

He gives her one last gift,

Before leaving a sheaf of papers,

Lying on the dining room table,

For her to find.

He was not really hurt,

Just sad that

She was too fickle.

The next time he falls in love,

He hopes that,

He won’t need to buy

And give,

A fish that is red-gold,

With big,

Red eyes.

Mr Cool.

Mr Cool walks,

Like he doesn’t have,

A single care in the world.

It’s delectable,

Enticing,

The way he can simply be,

Mr  Cool.

Imagine a guy,

Who can wear sunglasses,

And rake his hair back,

With an unbutton suit,

And a loose tie,

It’s kind of entrancing,

Knowing that he can do,

He can get,

He can have,

Whatever he wants.

And sure,

He’s something to look at,

The apple of a photographer’s eye.

But who is he,

Next to someone else.

Who is he,

Compared to someone,

Who wears a beanie,

And has slightly shaggy hair,

With a who gives-a-crap attitude,

To their clothes?

I’d like a Mr Cool,

With a self aware attitude,

It’d be nice,

If he was next to me.

I’d feel cool too.

But then,

I think,

Is he kinder than the average guy?

Maybe.

Is he smarter than a geeky guy?

Maybe.

Is he the one to make my heart pound?

Probably not.

If he was,

Then he would look cool,

Walking beside me,

And

Not just cool,

His look would fit mine.

Even if I think,

I’m not half bad,

Somehow,

Mr Cool,

Is just a guy,

In whatever clothes,

Who can stand by me,

And look like a match.

He wouldn’t care as much about

Everyone else,

But rather,

He’d look at me,

And say,

“You’re gorgeous”

To make me blush.

But even so,

They all stare,

Not just at him,

But at me too,

Because I know,

Next to this guy,

Who was once an ordinary guy,

Turned into Mr Cool,

I am Beautiful,

Just right for Mr Cool.

Expression Of A Cold Hearted Man.

He never smiled.
I painted his face, elegant in angles, enticing to behold.
He does not look at me.
I grace the canvas with his shadows.
He is the epitome of expressionless.
I paint the sadness in his eyes.
His clothes are impeccable.
I see a corporate business man.
He is a model.
I want to capture him.
I want him to love his work.
I want him to see the artist.
He is a model.
I paint his clothes.
He has long lashes.
I paint him leaning back, eyes partly closed.
He does not have a heart.
I can only see colours.
He thinks he’s alone.
I can’t see anything but a crowd of shadows.
He has someone he loves.
I wonder if he will open his heart.
He stands and thanks me.
He still has no expression on his face, but,
He is not longer just a model.