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and as the curtain of night fell upon your windowsill, your eyes graze above moon beams straying across your uneven complexion. you kept swallowing uncalled-for thoughts that were nothing more than useless unspoken words but you cannot help but listen to the enswathed whispers, to their perpetual faint voices and you're stuck in-between their lips uttering coal painted canvases smothering the colour of scarlet within to make you lean on the wrong, yes, purchasing those masks conceal the mistakes nd your flawed appearance but from what? to cause a sense of security? - for your own self-assurance you'll be accepted by the many? (in which you think is something to be gratifying) defines a certain deprecation. you may hear the voids but do not lend yourself into their morass, just because they're wearing a prodigious facade you'll give in to their rainbow of compliments nd once you turn around 180 degrees they all spit venom unto your soul - pretending - for their own cost of defense from the crestfallen too.
darling you're beautiful in your own chosen paint bucket. with your disarray of skin tones, with your dry hair, with your freckles that adorn your sun-kissed neck nd chin, with your chicken-like exterior surface nd over-all your imperfections. what makes you blemish entails this seemly illustration of amalgamated pastels of the sunset breeze that exactly no matter what the demons produced for your mind to be demolished, God made you - an art - for you to love your own defects and your own blossoms.
