Under the layers of our years,

Beneath that wizened crust,

 sleeps the ageless spirit that once set fire to our eyes.

And in those eyes remain embers of youth,

 smoldering beneath ashy cataracts.


Deep creases and little lines mark year’s worth of smiles and frowns;

Scars are monuments to great battles, some victorious and some lost.

Truthfully, not every mark will retain its meaning over time,

You won’t have a story for every imperfection,

But you won’t regret the many laughs and sunny days that make up your crow’s feet.


There will come a time when you no longer wish to filter yourself;

There will be nothing you feel the need to erase.

You’ll be too busy filling up your canvas while you can still paint

To be concerned about who will buy it.


Those who love you will trace your varicose veins over sun-spotted skin

And follow the map they make to your heart.


A body is a vessel, a physical manifestation of the human being necessary for our minds to exist in and interact with our world.

No one is born big and whole; there is no perfection; you do not have a prime; you’re never “finished”.


The “real you” cannot be captured in a photograph.

An acorn, a sprout, a sapling, and a great oak are all technically trees.

Even the people who love you may not know every decision, thought, action, and struggle that built the person you see when it’s just you and the bathroom mirror.


The person I am is not absolute, polished, or meant for display;

I do not exist for the purpose of being approved of or enjoyed by others.

There is no one angle to capture all that is my beauty, no light greater than the brilliance of the spirit behind my eyes.

My existence is not a photograph, but a film.

I am not frozen, but boiling, evaporating, and ever-changing my state because I will always be learning, evolving, and redefining who I am.

The truest version of me is without a limit of who I can be. 

This poem is about: 
Our world


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