A young woman should be bold and brazen and fearless and I,
I am not.
A young woman should embody grace and charm and hope and I,
I am not.
My words don't hold enough power, my tongue is heavy with phrases left unspoken.
I feel ugly. I feel weak.
And she- the light, the glory- bursts through the doors of my peripherals with brillant color.
She's radiant, enough to share with the world...
Enough to share with little, inconsequential me.
She's a poet and a singer; how utterly divine!
To combine the star-crossed lovers: words and music.
Her words speak her pain and passion, she envelopes the stage and my mind in pure sunlight.
Her flaws are laid barren in her prose and posture, in her smile and sentences.
She's got loveliness dripping from her eyes.
And suddenly, I realize her faults, that which makes her golden to me, are mirrored in my own.
I am made beautiful in my curves and birthmarks.
I am made awe-inspiring when my words fill the page.
I am made artist by my thoughts and ideas.
I am made queen by my soft speeches and fiery battlecries.
It took a muse to find it, but still it is there. My flawlessness. My glory.
No pheonix nor dragon holds a flame to the sun of my wonder.
She has cried tears for me to see my own reflection in and smile,
Proud of both my inner demons and my invisible angelical glow.
And oh, how my love for myself twists upwards like marble spires
As I accept my faults and failures for what they are...the blueprints of perfection.