as I’ve grown older I’ve come to know,
what I’ve believed about beautiful is
no more than paint to a canvas,
chisel to marble, words to a page –
malleable, fixable – even erasable –
The North Star won’t change with this revelation
it’s solely mine to own.
beautiful is soft strength and an open heart,
unafraid to enter the dark —
knowing there ain’t a damn thing
that can bring her to her knees unless she goes.
beautiful isn’t a doubtful mouth or a backwards glance,
questioning if you stammered too much, too often, too long…
second-guessing every move and glance as you left him behind.
he’s out of his mind to let her go – that’s what beautiful knows.
beautiful is the squared shoulders of the littlest girl
looking her daddy in the eye and saying, smiling, for all the world,
“I know,” when he looks at her and says she’s the smartest girl he knows.
Beautiful, there ain’t a headline on earth that makes it so.
That’s what I know.