On Self-Image
A poem about self esteem
I am not beautiful
I am not good enough
We've all thought that at some point.
I remember enough self-hate to make the devil blush
I remember insults I repeated in my head as if to worship the alter of my enemies
At night I laid in a bed of self pity
With every lash out in my direction
I opened the door to let the belief in
I kept waiting around for someone to save me
But what I found was a girl that needed love more than I did
She showed me that I wasn't so unloveable
She showed me that by the words of others I had been fooled
I realized that I had to pick myself up.
I had to be my own hero.
Because the only person who could decide my self-worth
was me.
Keep in mind that when people cut down trees
you have to plant your own.
Please don't put so much thought into society's definition of beauty
I'm begging you because I want you to stop and think
Have you ever met a skinny girl who said she was admirable?
Have you a single friend who likes every part of themselves?
Society isn't searching for beauty,
It's searching for an incorrect definition of perfection in an imperfect world
True beauty is in imperfection
I want you to keep that in mind
Who is anyone to decide
what size or distribution
what collection of body parts that everyone has
what pattern of skin that on no person is identical
Who is anyone to decide the definition of beauty?
Only you can decide your definition of pretty.
Do we compare the size of petals when contemplating the beauty of flowers?
When adopting a dog, do we take into account the shape of faces or a collection of moles?
After admiring a hill do we then decide it would be better if the grass were a lighter color?
I'll give you the answer: we don't.
We fall in love with the imperfections of others
So why can't we love our own?
I want you to look in the mirror
and decide you are beautiful
Because no matter how much you change your body
The way you see yourself won't change until you decide you are worth it.
Realize the value in your imperfections.
I am beautiful.
I am amazing.
I am proud to be myself.
About the Creator
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Six Feet Under
Buried alive. What a horrible way to go. Yazz lay there, in her own thoughts. What else could she do? She was hungry, thirsty, tired, mentally, and physically exhausted, and more than anything, she was bored. She hoped she would die of boredom before anything else, anything else would've been more painful. Like many people had, she and her friends had talked about what they reckon the worst ways to die were, it was a morbid subject, but it came up every now and again. Yazz had always been one to argue her point on drowning, others had mentioned burning alive, slowly and painfully bleeding to death, hung drawn and quartered, and being starved to death. It was strange that none of them had considered being buried alive, it had never come up. But now, she was thinking back to those conversations her and her friends had had, how could they have not thought about it? It took a lot longer than the others, you were completely confined, you couldn't move or do anything, you just had to wait, until your body was physically unable to support a life system anymore, which could take up to four days. Four! By far the longest out of all of them. She recounted some of these conversations just to try and pass the time, anything to pass the time. It was difficult to know how much time had passed since she had been underground, it was difficult to know anything. There were many things that Yazz didn't know, she didn't know where she was, she didn't know how she'd got into the coffin, she'd just woken up there. Yazz also didn't know what time it was, or even what day it was, she guessed at Tuesday, it was Sunday evening when she'd been buried alive, intentionally, and although it had felt like weeks had passed, she was still alive, which means she hadn't died from dehydration, and therefore it couldn't have been more than four days.
By Liam Storm4 days ago in Fiction
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