There are moments in our lives which shape us.
Bring us to a new understanding, of which beforehand we knew nothing of.
The shift in our paradigm, the obvious tilt in our orbit is enough.
It causes every fiber of our being to be examined, reflected upon, and criticized.
We stand before our own mirror, our own looking glass, determined.
We say to our mirrored self “I want to be beautiful”.
How can the world understand what we truly want is to be loved?
To be able to look ourselves in that jaded glass and know without hesitation.
Is it possible, realistic even, to ask ourselves such a query?
Would the world be able to grasp our hand, lift our spirits?
When our life, even our most treasured loves are challenged, we fight.
Why then, as humans, do we allow our very image to cause us to shrink?
Do we not see the worth staring back in our misty eyes?
Are we unable to feel the depths we encase in our souls waiting to be freed?
A conundrum yet to be solved – to even be attempted.
Our beauty has become something so materialistic, so unnatural.
We stare at our made up faces, our styled follicles and we see what we want.
There is no cure for vanity, no magic potion to allow our hearts to breathe.
We suffer in our own suffocation as we expect others to do right alongside us.
No qualms, save the quiver deep in our depths, pleading for salvation.
And what of this salvation? This need to be freed?
Pining away, aching with remarkable clarity, even as our hearts bleed.
Such swelling is unnatural, though exists it does.
Harboring an illness older than time itself, destined to be the end of some.
For there are those of us, tender-hearted in an extreme deemed incurable.
Alas, here we come full circle – staring upon the clouded holder of visage.
Imagine, just this once, we wipe away the fogginess and gain clarity.
There we are – enamored by the selfless, genuine, beautiful creature we are.
All those simple things you altered, allowing your true image to be seen.
Aching? Pleading? Desperation? What of them? Gone.
Someone once asked me, “How can we hate ourselves?”
I replied with conviction, “When we no longer love ourselves”.
Which is why my looking glass forever remains fogged.
Bring us to a new understanding, of which beforehand we knew nothing of.
The shift in our paradigm, the obvious tilt in our orbit is enough.
It causes every fiber of our being to be examined, reflected upon, and criticized.
We stand before our own mirror, our own looking glass, determined.
We say to our mirrored self “I want to be beautiful”.
How can the world understand what we truly want is to be loved?
To be able to look ourselves in that jaded glass and know without hesitation.
Is it possible, realistic even, to ask ourselves such a query?
Would the world be able to grasp our hand, lift our spirits?
When our life, even our most treasured loves are challenged, we fight.
Why then, as humans, do we allow our very image to cause us to shrink?
Do we not see the worth staring back in our misty eyes?
Are we unable to feel the depths we encase in our souls waiting to be freed?
A conundrum yet to be solved – to even be attempted.
Our beauty has become something so materialistic, so unnatural.
We stare at our made up faces, our styled follicles and we see what we want.
There is no cure for vanity, no magic potion to allow our hearts to breathe.
We suffer in our own suffocation as we expect others to do right alongside us.
No qualms, save the quiver deep in our depths, pleading for salvation.
And what of this salvation? This need to be freed?
Pining away, aching with remarkable clarity, even as our hearts bleed.
Such swelling is unnatural, though exists it does.
Harboring an illness older than time itself, destined to be the end of some.
For there are those of us, tender-hearted in an extreme deemed incurable.
Alas, here we come full circle – staring upon the clouded holder of visage.
Imagine, just this once, we wipe away the fogginess and gain clarity.
There we are – enamored by the selfless, genuine, beautiful creature we are.
All those simple things you altered, allowing your true image to be seen.
Aching? Pleading? Desperation? What of them? Gone.
Someone once asked me, “How can we hate ourselves?”
I replied with conviction, “When we no longer love ourselves”.
Which is why my looking glass forever remains fogged.
Comments