Beauty;
What is it really?
Something you see,
Or something you feel?
Is it framed in the eye
Of the beholder,
Or only seen
In the mind of the owner?
Can it be made?
Won?
Changed?
Is it something
That exists deep down inside
Of everyone,
Or a feature that only a lucky few
Are blessed with?

Is beauty still beauty
If no one can see it,
If the owner denies it,
If it seems coarse and ugly
To all those surrounding it,
But one,
If its beauty is dangerous
And intimidating,
If it is
Not gentle, and peaceful?

Where does beauty start,
In a maple leaf
Pirouetting through the air,
Touched by none,
Stopped by naught,
Or in the smothering makeup
That covers one’s skin,
And changes a person
Into someone they’re not?
Does it start in the depths
Of the color black,
A color made of every emotion,
And shade known to mankind,
With the breath of morning air
Leaving moisture on a rose,
With a newborn’s first piercing cry?
Does it start with the simple beauty
Of a snail sliding through the grass,
With the lithe grace
Of a natural predator
Stalking its prey,
Or does it start
In the skin,
The complexion,
The luster of one’s hair?
Does in start in trivial things
Such as the color of one’s eyes,
The shape of one’s nose,
The style of one’s clothing?

Is beauty warm or cold,
Feather-soft or stone-hard,
Welcoming or frosty,
Kind or haughty?
Can discovered beauty save one
From their fate
Or only send them
To their doom,
Fast, as if by
The speed of the devil?
Does beauty scar or heal,
Bring anguish to
Or relieve one of sadness?
Does beauty have a heart,
Or is it filled
With cold, unforgiving stone?
Does beauty help one survive,
Or make it easier to for
Death to claim them?

What is this beauty,
That has a false allure,
A spider’s web
That entangles its helpless victims,
Brands them with its name,
Then leaves them helpless,
That scorches their hearts,
Then promises it will heal them,
That spreads misery and pain,
Like a plague sent from Hell,
And blames it on
The rain,
The thunderclouds,
The darkness
That creeps in at night?

Placing the blame on
Things they can
Hardly stand to lay eyes on,
Without trembling in fear,
Wrinkling their noses
In distaste,
Proclaiming it ugly,
Unworthy of their sight.

What is this beauty worth,
That goes no deeper
Than the skin,
That dwells on pointless things,
Things that will not matter
In the long run,
Things that will change
Again and again,
Over the course of one’s lifetime?
Nothing;
This so-called ‘beauty’
Will only bring harm
To those whom embrace it,
And make it their will and way
Of life.

True beauty is pure,
Soft, gentle, and loving,
Though parts of it may seem
Far from it.
It does not try to
Claim one’s attention,
But draws it all the same.
It exists in everything,
Even in the smallest grain of sand,
The most pit-marked of trees,
Or the most wary of faces.

This is the beauty
That will take you places,
Send you to unknown heights,
While all the while
Sticking by your side,
And inspiring you to
Become your very best.