Beauty Was Never a Picture

[Satya]

Beauty was never just a face,
A perfect body, a measured waist.
It was the smile that came unsought,
The quiet joy that cannot be bought.
Yet we drew a frame around its grace,
And told the world, “Fit into this space.”


We chose a color, a shape, a size,
Then taught the rest to criticize.
A different nose, a darker skin,
And suddenly, a flaw within.
We made the rule, we drew the line,
Then called our own creation divine.


The body changes, the years move on,
The dark hair fades, the young face is gone.
But why must every wrinkle hide?
Why must the years be pushed aside?
Life never promised to stay the same,
So why must change be treated as shame?


A mirror shows what stands in view,
But cannot tell the whole of you.
You paint your lips, you style your hair,
There is no crime in wanting care.
But when you change because you’re told,
Who owns the beauty you behold?


Perhaps beauty was never a face,
Nor something measured, ranked, or chased.
Perhaps it lives where life is free,
From what the world demands it be.
For beauty becomes a prison, you see,
When an image decides what beauty must be.

 

[Honey bunch]

Beauty was never just a face,
A perfect body, a measured waist.
It was the smile that came unsought,
The quiet joy that cannot be bought.
Yet we drew a frame around its grace,
And told the world, “Fit into this space.”


We chose a color, a shape, a size,
Then taught the rest to criticize.
A different nose, a darker skin,
And suddenly, a flaw within.
We made the rule, we drew the line,
Then called our own creation divine.


The body changes, the years move on,
The dark hair fades, the young face is gone.
But why must every wrinkle hide?
Why must the years be pushed aside?
Life never promised to stay the same,
So why must change be treated as shame?


A mirror shows what stands in view,
But cannot tell the whole of you.
You paint your lips, you style your hair,
There is no crime in wanting care.
But when you change because you’re told,
Who owns the beauty you behold?


Perhaps beauty was never a face,
Nor something measured, ranked, or chased.
Perhaps it lives where life is free,
From what the world demands it be.
For beauty becomes a prison, you see,
When an image decides what beauty must be.

Beautifully expressed, @Satya

I feel the real problem begins when we start seeing ourselves through the eyes of a world that keeps changing its definition of beauty. There's nothing wrong with wanting to look beautiful, but we shouldn't have to feel less beautiful just because we don't fit someone else's idea of it.

After all, our appearance may change with time, but the beauty of being ourselves was never meant to depend on how perfectly we fit into a picture created by others. Perhaps the real freedom is not in learning to love every reflection in the mirror, but in knowing that no reflection can define our worth.
​

 

[Satya]

Beautifully expressed, @Satya

I feel the real problem begins when we start seeing ourselves through the eyes of a world that keeps changing its definition of beauty. There's nothing wrong with wanting to look beautiful, but we shouldn't have to feel less beautiful just because we don't fit someone else's idea of it.

After all, our appearance may change with time, but the beauty of being ourselves was never meant to depend on how perfectly we fit into a picture created by others. Perhaps the real freedom is not in learning to love every reflection in the mirror, but in knowing that no reflection can define our worth.
​

Beautifully understood. Perhaps the point is not to love or reject our reflection, but to see that a reflection is only an image, not the living being. The moment we allow an image to define our worth, we make life answerable to an idea. Beauty should be something we enjoy, not a standard we must satisfy to feel complete.