A poem I wrote this past January.
(Throwing Off the Old Mask)
Ones perception of you.
How you should look.
The way you should dress.
Fitting you into a mold.
This mold that's far too small.
A mold cast for a few.
Does it make me lacking?
Not being able to fit.
The amount of beauty found.
Seen through tinted glass.
A glass now made hazy.
With judgement and contempt.
I won't wear makeup for you.
I'll not wear a mask.
To make you see someone else.
Whose beauty you're seeking.
This is my beauty.
It's bursting at the seams.
It's there for all to see.
If only you'd know me.
I see beauty every day.
It's made in his image.
Made by his hands.
From dust we shall return.
No makeup can compare.
To make up for what he's molded.
I came from my own mold.
It's why I don't fit into yours.
I don't need to be more.
Than I was already made to be.
I don't need to hide.
The person you should see.
Imperfection is beautiful too.
Blemished are we all.
Refusing to be whited sepulcher's.
Instead beautifying the inside.
Take off the mask.
Remove the paint.
That we hide ourselves with.
Find peace in the image he made you.
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