And if it were true
or if it was so,
or if the facts were that yes,
my insecurities were all real
and that yes, my body was as I saw it
or, that in my assumptions that, at best,
all I could be was awkward,
then yes,
naturally,
I would assume that everyone saw me
the same as I saw myself –
inaccurately.
I am a fan of a thought which originated
in a conversation with a young girl,
who saw herself as “less-than”
or as undesirable,
to which I explained to her,
no matter how pretty someone is on the outside
if they are ugly on the inside
then they could only be average
at best.
Then I told her,
“You couldn’t be average if you tried!”
Perhaps it would be better for me to realize
and understand my own advice
and take this for me . . .
and use this concept
for myself.
The word beauty means so many things
and although there is a standard
to the definition;
when it comes to the definition of beautiful
or as far as beauty is concerned;
I have come to realize
that it is my job
to determine what is beautiful to me,
even if this means my beauty
is not beautiful
to anyone else.
As long as it is beautiful to me
then I will know what’s beautiful to me
and thus,
I will always have beauty in my life.
And yes,
I want to be beautiful.
Of course, I do.
I want to be wanted
I want to be seen and identified
and to stand out
or to stand above,
and to be counted
or worthy
or to be wanted
in a way that no words
could convey how imperative
my touch would be;
and yes,
I want to be cared for,
considered,
and enough
to dare the world for
or to be enough to defy the world
and as much as I can love
or as much as I can appreciate beauty,
I want to be loved and seen the same way:
Beautiful.
If I am to define beauty,
then perhaps I should define this now
as in, right here,
and I should do this
before I slip, or lose my place
or trip over the untied shoelaces
of “old times” or the “old times” ideas
or past insecurities
which led to the ideas
of my own personal inferiority.
I remember hoping,
reaching, and I recall
back in the days of loose jeans,
Converse sneakers, ratted and tattered,
and loose shoelaces,
standing near Central Park,
after buying a hot dog
from the hot dog cart, mustard, ketchup
sauerkraut and can of soda . . .
there I was, chasing a dream
or a hope
or an idea that I could be anyone
or anything better than I was.
A writer, perhaps
But no.
I was unaware
and afraid
and too easily persuaded
by critics
and insults.
I wished . . .
but no.
I have always wanted to be more
and to do more
or brave enough
to dare
and dream more
but the order was too tall
for a small boy
who never saw his own worth
or understood
his own value
or knew that I had outgrown
my old exterior.
A writer?
Me?
I wished . . .
And yes, as for my concepts of beauty
or when it comes to my definitions of beauty,
I have come to the understanding
that the definition of beauty
is always expanding
or ever changing
and evolving
and as I grow
or as I reach new heights
and come to a greater level of consciousness
and achieve better levels of understanding,
I am aware that beauty is a word
than cannot be limited
or encapsulated
or contained
by one, simple
definition.
Art is the same way.
So are writers.
No one has the right to define
or determine who is
or who isn’t.
That’s my job too.
I can say that there are those
who put fear in my heart
and there are the old trauma bonds
which either pushed or pulled
or those who used compliments
and insults
to take them away.
I do believe that love changes.
I do not see love as anything
that can come
as a “one size fits all.”
And to me, or when it comes to my love
and my visions of love,
my love is reflected from the eyes
which are the windows of her soul
to which I can see myself
or my future
and as well as my past;
and in the combination of the two
I see my love
as the beautiful combination
of how life leads us in different directions;
to end up, exactly where
we are supposed to be
to which
at some point
we find our way home.
Home . . .
I say this because home is where the heart is
and so is love
so is beauty
and so are my dreams,
both onward, and consecutively
or beautifully ongoing
and always unfolding,
from now
until the day comes
when the sun shines
like brightness
when the first light
takes the sky,
and then I’ll know.
Behold
my love.
There she is
To me,
that is beautiful
and she, to me—
she is more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen
and thus
she will be my love
for life
or longer
connected to me
by fate
and impervious to the demons
of chaos.
This is my home,
which is not mine yet
but it will be
Someday . . . .
This is my promise
(to me)
The Written Addiction 