The Undead, One-Person Poet Society: You Are Beautiful.


You are so pretty.
You are too pretty for that.
Make sure you look pretty tonight.
She is so pretty!
You would look so pretty with a little bit of this.
I am not as pretty as her.
That's a pretty price.
What a pretty little thing.
But at least you're pretty.


You can be pretty.
You can be beautiful.
You can be pretty and beautiful.
But pretty and beautiful are not the same thing.


A pretty face.
A pretty vase.
A pretty penny.
A pretty woman.
A pretty bride.
A pretty boy.
A pretty price.

Pretty is narrowly defined.
Pretty is constructed.
Pretty is chosen.
Pretty is a thing.
Pretty is a commodity.
Pretty is capitalized.
Pretty defines an object.
Pretty is a masquerade.
The masquerade of femininity.
The masquerade of masculinity.
Pretty. Handsome. Playthings of the world I live in.
Meaningless descriptions of subjective objectivity.


But, beauty
Ah, beauty,
beauty is not always pretty.

A beautiful mess.
A beautiful death.
A beautiful chaos.
A beautiful frenzy.
A beautiful quirk.
A beautiful boredom.
And the mind.
My sapiosexual appetite.
Knowledge is beautiful.
The mind is beautiful.
But, knowledge can be scary.
It can purge your ignorant pleasure.
It can drown the silence or the screaming voices.
It can shine upon the tropes.
Define you, then unravel that definition.
Rip your assurances to shreds.
Paint your vision with the stark slash of humanity.
Shake freedom from its stance.
But its beautiful.
Knowledge isn't pretty. 
An opinion, solidified and defended, isn't pretty.
A passionate argument, and animosity isn't pretty, but it can be beautiful.
A beautiful argument?
The way our words dance and clash.

You can take me.
You can tell me I'm not pretty. 
And you can lie to yourself.
You can construct the pretty face you are searching for.
But I am not searching for your commodity. I want your beauty.
You can tell me, I am wrong, because you know you are not handsome. You aren't pretty. 
But you are beautiful.
I love your mind and your mistakes.
I love your knowledge, and your doubts.
I love your messy, scary, liminal, beauty.

You are beautiful.
Not perfect.
Not pretty. Or handsome.
Though I throw these words at you like whispers in the wind.
Though I flatter you with these sweet nothings.
What I mean however,
when I say such scripted lines...
what I really, really mean to say
is that you are beautiful.

My Signature photo ScreenShot2013-01-19at64007PM_zps0ca5128b.png

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