she doesn't.

The spots on my cheek are a constellation of their own,

waiting to be mapped and studied for the beauty they are.

At the corner of my eyes are rivers

over flowing from time to time, keeping the banks moist.

The outline of my lips form mountains and valleys

that sit upon a chasm of echoes and howls.


Nature is always changing;

her features are nothing less than imperfect perfections.

She demands to be noticed and appreciated,

for there is no reason to hide her beauty.

So why do I hide my own?


This poem is about: 



I love this. 

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