As a child I would sit cross legged

On my parents homely bed.

I would watch, fascinated,

As mum got ready for a night out

With dad.

She hummed softly to herself

As he showered.

I listened to the soundtrack

Of comfort and familiarity.

Mums make-up bag lay strewn

Across rumpled covers,

I would take out each product

And hold it in my small hand

Rub the soft brushes against my skin,

Trace the lipstick around my mouth,

Thinking to myself

This would make be beautiful.


From that day on,

I placed make-up on

A pedestal.

In my childish opinion,

It was the only thing that could

Create beauty.

Growing older,

This belief only intensified.


As a teenager I would sit cross legged

In front of the mirror

Practicing the skill of creating


The music this time

Was composed of insecurities,

Another soundtrack

That had become familiar.

But something was wrong

I didn’t look, I didn’t feel


Yes, I liked wearing it,

It gave me more confidence

Turned down the music,

But I wasn’t beautiful.


Over time,

I learned that beauty

Doesn’t come wrapped in

Mac or L’Oreal.

It is an ideal

Of an individual mind.

It would always be an aspiration

Not an achievement.


As an adult I sit cross legged

As I read and write poetry

I have learned that there is

Many types of beauty.

It can be found in words,

Rhythms and patterns.

Beauty is an art not a person,

Beauty can be found this poem,

But never in me.


11 thoughts on “Beauty

  1. Ah so well put. If only more young women found the beauty within, in others, in everything. Except, the mindless drum beat of money makers hypnotic composures. Your words are beautiful = heart is beautiful.

    Liked by 2 people

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