What Is Art?

Without you standing

beside me?

Impressionism? What is 

the colour of your soul? 

Which brush strokes 

were used to create this 

bumpy surface, only 

appearing in the era of 

political control?

Our love a renaissance? 

When men keep shooting 

each other in 

artistic difference? 

On your last breathe

paint me the woman 

you want me to be 

and 

then destroy your work 

eternally

The Black Rose

There is no filter that can capture true beauty. To my little sister, who sent me this picture and became a muse to these writings…

Beautiful, when you were born

Now, fullness of curls, thick hips

A black rose full in bloom

  

Your laugh always ended in a curl

Fighting conformity effortlessly

Forming musical notes, perfectly

 

I spoke to you as a gemstone

I said never change your skin

only find yourself within it

 

See it as the perfect sunset

with different shades and hues

painted on the outside of you

 

Appreciate the rawness of truth

Fight the lies, contouring features

that make-up restrictive dreams

 

The mirror is not a driving test

Beauty does not need a pass mark

Smash projected imagery in half

 

Whilst doing so, become whole

You are beyond this realm

with understanding of your soul

Choose wisdom over vanity

Choose humility over pride

Choose yourself over society

with divine permission to thrive

 

But most of all choose love

to be the response to those

who cry at night wishing

to be born someone else

 

Who look at their face, contorted

due to shame and rejection

of something once called beautiful

Who pinch and taunt and flex

and squeeze and breathe in tightly,

just to perform acceptance of self

 

Be that woman, who is quiet

when everyone else is loud,

moving freely to your sound

Be her, for everyone who lives

in the highlights, waiting to become

someone behind a box of brushes

 

Become a catalyst of confidence

for those who hide every morning

Say “I’m beautiful, just this way.”