You're not beautiful.
You're the letters sculpted by a poet.
You're the scars on a soldier, drawn by his enemy.
You're the nightmares that leaves him shivering.
You're the howling of the wolves.
You're the roaring of the lions.
You're the smell of the rusty old books.
You're the smile of her self-confidence.
You're the hollowness in her eyes.
You're the white marks on his arms.
You're the stars of the dead sky.
You're the tears of a dark painted sky.
You're the Maria of the Moon.
You're the Rings of Jupiter.
You're the lost hope, welled up eyes.
You're the cannabis between his lips.
You're the last bit of bourbon in her glass.
You're the running mascara on her cheeks.
You're the void promises he speaks.
You're the blood on his hands.
You're the deceptive cognition.
You're the smell of her perfume.
You're the reason for his dancing footprints.
You're the earthly sludge on a child's gleeful face.
You're the spoken vows and the poetic phrase.
You're the broken soul, a damsel in distress.
You're the shine of his armour.
You're the the light in her eyes.
You're the terrible truth, but a marvellous lie.
You're anything, but beautiful
You're life.
