Beautiful Poem by Yvonne Iversen

Beautiful,
stuck in our throats.
Chasing us everywhere we go.
Hunt us.
Stuck on us,
like glue.
Like a cockroach,
everlasting,
almost.

We try to escape,
away from the horrifying beautiful.
A concept,
made for harassment.
Like a shadow.
Used in wrong terms.
Has set a standard for our poor souls,
desperately the unsureness fill our veins.
Poisoning the lost souls of tomorrow.

A lovely word,
used wrong.
The sense of true beauty never reaches the screen.
Hidden from the outside world,
while we try to embrace the false dignity.
The false mentality sets a double standard,
laughs at us right in the face.
Thinking we're smart,
being dumb.

It can't be characterised,
or set in motion.
There's no description,
no recipe.
Only man-made.
A fantasy.
A dream that never comes true.
Only one correct answer;
the beauty is within,
deeper,
it reaches beneath the eye,
it casts only a glimpse in the mirror of our souls.