I Wonder What Is Beauty

Beauty to me has always since I've known been a woman's face and body
Something I can idealize or object too
And these days it irks me that I cannot find a woman's beauty among my arms, in my bed.
Rather should I say, a woman of beauty eludes me
And I called a girl tonight, who be really a woman in some ways.
I called her for comfort and a source of confidence
And the conversation started with my anger and troubles and doubts
And she, this young woman spoke to me with softness and wonder and wisdom.
And more.
Her words were poems and her mind full of romantices' view of life
Her idealism so inspiring when we spoke, saddens me now.
But for now I put that aside.
I wonder about more things than I can easily say.
I wonder like she...
What is beauty?
And I realize that beauty may be in her words as well.
Beauty can be an artist's rendering of a black face with eyes so fearful that you know you've encountered a painting that shocks you with it's low-class realism.
And this saddens me again.
I did not create this.
And I do not possess it- only a memory of it, which is on second-thought an opportunity.
If I do not ignore it.
It allows me to gather such an artwork unto my dwelling on a future day.
Something others might not know as beauty.
And for the few or one who do, I can share my view and share our commonality.
Beauty...
It is not sufficient in life to possess it, or have access to it.
One needs food and clothing and shelter.
Water.
And once one has these needs, what do we strive for?
To be seen by others as important, meaningful in some way.
I suppose and suggest that each of us needs to be appreciated, to be seen as a beauty in some way to have a higher sense of worth.
And there is not much beauty about me.
And again I am saddened.
I'm bouyed by writing.
And hopeful you appreciate me more.