Beauty- For Women


Link for the video:


I Googled the word beauty and found that,  

Beauty is a white woman’s face, perfectly proportioned,

Pink lipstick properly portioned,

With fives make up brushes pointed at key places.


Underneath a quote: Beauty is not in the face; beauty is in the light of the heart

Beauty is not in the face…but in the light of the heart.

They say beauty is in the eyes of the beholder,

The beheld beholden, at the behest of the beholders holding of their beauty, their worth.


We all know that women can’t be inherently beautiful,

Inherited bodies bountifully blessed, no.

Only when fake plastered with plastic paint can the perfect beauty truly shine

And we, men, castrated by capitalistic corporations to capitulation can’t raise beautiful daughters.

Can’t counsel the insecurity restrictions or cancel the iniquitous subscriptions.

Let our daughters live in the imagination creation of malevolent masterminds that is

the fantastical TV land where perfect people perch with beauty bought from bottles

instead of teaching her the perfection of potential, the beauty of belief and the power of possibility


our daughters grow to be wives, mothers, sisters and aunts,

trapped like ants in a anteater world where each day is war

and they can’t leave the house without war paint

wordless glances eviscerating their foes and decimating the enemy

only to have each glancing blow landed by disdainful glance

leave internal scars seen in the mirror

the mirror which never names her the most fair in the land


so she is stuck, chasing a white face, perfectly proportioned

unable to be satisfied by the perfection incarnate that she was born

and we, men, stand aside hopelessly helpless unable to help

until now.

I refuse to stand on the sideline of this one-sided fight

So I write this for every man, boy or child that has told the women they love that they are beautiful

And not been believed.

For every time I looked you in the eyes, told you that you were perfect and you did not believe me.

For every night spent showing her, her body with trembling fingers and for each whispered word, drunk in the perfection of the moment broken by the disbelief ingrained in the insecurities

You are beautiful. No. We know women are not inherently beautiful.

You are beyond beautiful.

This is for every woman I have met, will meet and will never meet.

Beauty can’t even begin to capture your being, you are so far beyond the word that to call you beautiful wouldn’t be becoming.

Your eyes shine like miniature supernovas when you laugh at something stupid

Your mouth hold the promise of tomorrow, whether curved in a smile or open and yelling or giving the valedictorian speech.

Your hair is the foundation of a dream catcher, each strand the rope I will use to save myself when stranded and lonely I will sink my fingers into your length and relax my worries

Your body is the perfect fit for my puzzle, you fold into me like a puppies love, all-encompassing and warm.  So warm you melt my rough edges into the softness of self

You smell like home and adventure and mystery and magic and fresh cookies

Your heart makes the Grinch jealous because it is a million times to big, so big that you can fit my mistakes and still have room to love me. Your heart is so big that if you allow it, it can love you too…scars and all.

Your soul is the missing link, the answer to why we are on earth and the solution to the greatest problems

You are my mother. You are my sister. You are my lover, my wife, my unborn daughter. My friend. My companion. My soul mate.

Don’t you dare you dare tell me that you are not beautiful.

You are beyond beautiful, and don’t let anyone tell you that you aren’t. Especially not that girl in the mirror.


Freedom of Laughter by Melissa Flores


There’s something about laughter–

beautiful, spontaneous, wild, and free.

Golden, springy curls of childhood untucked.

Stack of papers turned loose by the wind,

each sheet traveling independently.

Balloon, filled with air–pop!–

an unexpected explosion–

the air filled with colorful gasses.

Shotgun rhythm–each hand

slapping the sturdy oak of the dinner table–

a jolt through the musician’s body.

What was bound is now unbound,



                        contained-now set free. 


This is a poem by written by a personal friend of mine that I just love! So I posted it for your enjoyment as well!

Paa Ya Paa Poem 1


To understand this poem, I recommend you first take a look at this:


The colors dance on canvas

each a moment gem frozen

shards of our shared soul history shattered

and smeared on paper in vibrant hues,

greens, reds, blues and yellows

the dark brown paint ochre 

of our bodies gleaming 

our life written in a millions of words

then imbued with life 

and made to dance in infinite silence

each moment a forgotten memory

an intimate scene undressed

as we peer at the mysteries and try,

striving, our hearts and minds struggling

to connect as we push against the veil of ignorance

to recapture our bound soul and by looking

free it,

setting the color alight to burn bright 

within us

Ugly Baby


I saw a funny looking child today.

He lay cradled in his mother’s arms,

protruding forehead of no consequence.

He turned to me and smiled,

and I believed in childlike innocence then. 

In the purity of self image and self conception

before the world paints him ugly

and teaches him to hate himself. 

He smiles, and I smile back,

and at that moment he is the most

beautiful thing I have ever seen. 

Chocolate People (Written Version)


Do you remember when God made us from brown sugar, chocolate and molasses

And we danced with the sun and walked with moon?

Sang with the stars and made love to the night?

Do you remember when we were beautiful?

Do you remember when we walked, walked, danced to the beat of a different drummer,

The blood of giants coursing through our veins

And we ruled the world and were mighty, pyramids of stones raised to entomb our bones?

Do you remember when we were beautiful?

Do you remember when we were broken and captured,

Dancing in grotesque parodies of our birth dance, bound by chains of man,

Steel, stolen from our mother but our souls were free and knew we are kin of kings.

Do you remember when we were beautiful?

Do you remember when we broke the physical chains

Only to be bound by chains of self loathing and weakness,

Our pride broken and scars of shame crisscrossing our psyches,

And now our feet dance/shuffle to the white mans drum.                                                                                                                                                        But some of us still remember when we danced with the sun and walked with the moon.

Some of us remember that when God made us brown it was a blessing not a curse

And we are beautiful, sweet and powerful beyond measure.

Some of us will remember breaking breaking the chains that bind us

And rising to become who we are, everyman king and every woman queen,

Dancing with the sun and walking with the moon,

Our black skin gleaming and our teeth full of meaning

As the river of our history rolls out and our children remember that we/they are beautiful.

So come with me and remember                                                                                                                                                                          Dance with me and remember                                                                                                                                                                                  Feel, hear the THUD THUD THUD of a black man’s drum heartbeat

And feel the power of our history thrumming in our bones and humming in our souls

And grasp the future that is what we make it.

Remember when God made us from brown sugar, chocolate and molasses

And we were brown and beautiful and we danced, danced,

Danced with the sun and walked with the moon.

Remember that you, you are beautiful.



To destroy, perhaps to transform

creation, destruction

A soft collision of form and freedom

as shadows of images

pass, through one’s minds eye

because the change, the destruction



The color pours from ardent fingers

a dream, a hope, a regret.

The creator of the work.

Through it all, a silence

a reverence of the work done 

as it goes

as it swallows us and holds 

us immersed in it’s embrace

Intricacy and simplicity





There is an infinite beauty in living,

Breathing and listening

To the rhythm of the earth…


Artists merely tap into this haunting melody

And make vacuous shadows of the real

Beat that echoes


And curdles the blood of men and women

And sounds through the dreams of kings

The symphony


Of a sunset, the stattaco beat of the heart

As the body heats from a kiss

The music that roars


Soundlessly through the universe

The scale the world revolves in

With moans


Of the seasons, typhoons and dust bowls

Of the worlds pain and joy

The rumbles


Of a stampeding group of elephants

Charging the nearby store for bargain prices

And the percussion


Of the incessant tapping in class as the teachers

Drone on endlessly, the rhythm monotonous and

Overbearingly slow


Like the heartbeat of a great whale as it moans

Its sad song to the world, the sound vibrating through

The ocean wide, sonorous


The cry of a parent that outlived their child

Wild and aching, a piercing pain, sharper than the

Shriek of


Of pain as a teeth is uprooted and tossed


In it all.

There is beauty.