Untitled (Beautiful)

She sits and ponders
Progressively contemplating
Whether or not she can realistically define herself as beautiful.

See they say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder; well I think that beauty needs to be seen not in the eyes that hold her nor in the eyes of the man that turns to glance over his shoulder but in the eyes that are reflected in the mirror when the day is over, the eyes that really matter when the complexities of life shape and mold her.

She feels like she is in a state of perpetual mental enslavement. Trying to free her mind from these shackles placed on her by this immature nation. Seeking the true knowledge of what it means to be beautiful in this hell hole where the imitation of a Barbie is embraced, where cruelty is our new face. Where clicks and followers occupy every space, where betrayal is common because it’s every man for himself.

She feels like she has lost herself to a mindset that supports the negativity, demolishes the creativity, stifles the individuality, which has created unwanted perplexities. Eventually she has found herself idly passing by the motionless being on the curb who pleads for petty change. She found herself judging the woman wearing the platinum blond wig who only longs to be beautiful because unfortunately our society’s concept of beauty is “the lighter the better”. She feels no guilt when she throws away the food that she despises even though she acknowledges that there are children everywhere who’s hunger is so profound that it can be seen piercing through their innocent eyes.

She has watched from the sidelines, permitting herself to possess blind eyes when her sight is just fine. She no longer feels beautiful, like the little girl she used to be who only wanted to save the world.

-Michal Dyson