the Thinker

Why is Beauty so predictable?
So conventional, so usual?
Isn’t Plain beautiful too?
In its sincerity, isn’t it natural?

Why does Beauty have to be so spotless?
And obscenely bloodless and fair?
Doesn’t the moon have spots too?
And still a radiance so rare?

Why is Beauty always deemed young?
Juvenile and tender?
Isn’t Serenity appealing too?
In its deep, calm lines and silver?

Why is Beauty always measured?
In inches, feet or with mere eyes?
Can’t it be stout and not slender?
Can’t an irregular structure surmise?

‘Whining will not change anything, ugly toad.’
They looked down on me as they spoke.
‘I am aware,’ I replied.
‘You need not poke.’

‘What good are you without beauty?’
‘You are an object without charm;
A flesh without taste, if you aren’t pretty.’
They waited as I started, disarmed.

‘Yes, I don’t have the right flesh,’
A cruel smile flashed as I said.
‘But I own thoughts breathing fire;
ideas of which dreams are made.’

‘I weave words that spell wonder
I don’t have beauty, but I am not barren
I have springs of an elixir that blooms all seasons;
while your beauty remains frozen.’

Their milk white turned dark purple;
and anger incensed as I continued.
‘I create all that is beautiful;
I paint with mysterious hues.’

The venom now poured out fuming.
The beauty was nowhere to be seen.
Bitter rage those eyes bred
and rained contempt as they said.

‘Unfortunate scum, you breed disgust
Men lust only for likes of us
Your lame words will only attract scorn;
and that they must.’

‘You are a sorry thing to look at;
A sting to eyes and a bane for senses
Without beauty none will fall
for your poor defenses.’

They stormed away while I thought alone.
Gathered all that Creation had gifted
And gave birth to this piece
which ‘Beauty’ itself has crafted.

Beauty could be eternal, a thing forever;
but does it always usurp?
Does it have to be used and not felt?
Is it not born, always made up?

So I am not beautiful the way They are;
And I may not ever be.
But will that mean…
That there is no beauty in me?