Beautification.

Beautification; by definition I'm unsure as to what this word even means. I've never taken the time to look it up. As a matter of fact, most of the words that I use on a day to day basis weren't learned from any structural source. I just use them and assume that I know what they mean. Like beautification. I'd assume that it's the process of making yourself beautiful or attempting to enhance your features so that you're socially acceptable. I'm not one for this concept. For some reason, however, this word came to mind and I was thinking: "Is that even a real word or is it just something that my wild fucking imagination came up with?" No. Not at all. It exists. Have I looked it up? No. Do I intend on doing so? Not in the slightest.

When I think about beautification I constantly think of post-it notes that you attach to your face, to your hair, to your body in areas where you'd typically want people to pay attention to. Accentuated features. You write down any kind of compliment you'd possibly want or accept from this feature and stick it to yourself until you are one massive walking fucking post-it note and then you work your way in reverse, removing each note carefully so as not to get paper cuts. Self-improvement starts there. Gradually, as these notes that are stuck to your body decrease in number and as your hands become more and more covered with nicks and are turning reddish brown from the dried-up blood, you become more and more the person that you'd like to face in the mirror. You contest with yourself.

With time I suppose you get much better at and you're not constantly rushing to the store to pick up a fucking box of bandages. The better you get at making your self beautiful, the more and more you forget the things that got you there: those ugly scars and marks on your fingers. Those hideous bandages around your fingers, on the palms of your hand and so on and so forth making their way all the way up to your wrists. I honestly think that if a woman has beautiful wrists then she truly is a beautiful woman (just a side note). The further along the road that you are, the more likely you are to forget each and every step you made in the first mile of your hike. It's ironic in a sense that true beauty can lead to self-destruction in the sense that if you forget your roots, the reasons why you'd even gotten there will disappear until you're nothing but an empty shell. Beautiful on the outside, but completely devoid of any meaning in the inside.

It's also striking how once we achieve greatness, we disintegrate. Once we're on top of the world, we become complacent and let our guard down, only to fall down off of this proverbial throne that we've provided for ourselves and be usurped by the next King or Queen of the world. The next big this. Something much more beautiful. We stop putting those post-it notes on our skin because we feel we have attained the greatest things without keeping in mind that there is always someone or something greater than us there. There's always something or someone that should motivate us. Put some fucking fire under our asses. The scent of coffee in the morning air. Once we reach perfection, we are more comfortable with decay. So in a sense, beautification is both what it means by definition and its polar opposite. beautification is self-destruction. Now aspiration: that's an entirely different subject.

Beautification is to me the search for acceptance and the steps you take to get there. Physically as well as mentally and emotionally. You search for things in yourself and make mental notes as to what you need to improve on. You focus. You go to book stores and pick up books with advice that were written by authors that you've never fucking heard of in your entire life or if you have, they're sitting on top of a pile of money that an ocean couldn't contain and you've just provided their afternoon coffee outing at some Starbucks where you're guaranteed they're paying for overpriced products to illustrate their social stance. You read these fucking books written by these disgusting people because you idolize and worship them. When in reality, if you're going to take anyone's advice you should take your own.

Stand in front of a mirror and pick yourself apart. I deplore you. Put yourself on display and fix whatever may be ailing you. You might get those nicks from all the notes that you leave yourself, and you might not. But instead of writing down compliments for yourself that you'd expect from other people, size yourself up by your very own standards. Let down your hair. Be the you that you are when no one else is around. Because in my past experience if you work on you for you, you'll never have to fear being overrun and you'll never have to fear being the victim of constant fucking bullshit criticism from others. You'll have yourself to fend with. Although the nature of one's self is a worthy adversary in itself. If you can face yourself at your worst you surely can overcome anything or anyone else. This is the true definition of beautification, I think. You won't need to cover up your nicks and scrapes. You won't have to be the drunkest, loudest person at the party and therefore the center of attention, standing there in the limelight expected to say or do something but drawing a blank and hence the dissatisfaction that you'll eventually get from these people and their fake tits, plastic faces and their expensive evening gowns.

Be at war with yourself. Not with other people. You don't need a dictionary to help you discover that. While you're at it, take those little notes with all of their nice little compliments and shove them down the throats of those that you strive to impress.

I stole this from myself so I could get famous.

Glances shooting in all the wrong directions
Plagaristic parasites burrowing into my spine
Unfolding in front of me like paper airplanes
Scars on a porcelain city skyline mean nothing

Nothing at all to anyone of us as we
Waltz to the sound of breaking glasses
And the rhythm of running bath water
Pulling up our feet and sinking into it.
When we emerge we will be reborn into
Sadistic cruel adversaries of ourselves
Built of carrion and feed for the vultures
Built of fake smiles and kisses like razors

No one told me when I was a boy
That this would ever happen
I never really knew what to expect
I never expected to fail like this

Breathe out. Is it poison
That smell in the air feels
A lot like sitting in a car
With a hose in the window
Singing me to sleep softly
To the beautiful sounds of
Breaking glass in three/four.
Echoing in dimly lit hallways.

So it is said
That this passing of emotion
Will leave the river dry
So it is known
That this pestilence coming
Is sweeping the countryside
So it is broken
Into my skin like the
Bruises and scars in leather
So it is said
That I'm becoming nothing
Just like this dwindling population...

This is a chorus for the undying trees
Singing symphonies with the wind
Drunk off the wine that gives us our life
And falling sleep in the primordial jacuzzi
This is the song that we sing so loudly
From the tops of buildings in burning cities
Drowning so deep in our vices because we don't
Know what to do about them anymore...

Not anymore...
The taste of cigarettes
Replacing the love in the world
Burning at the stakes with
The witches and the prostitutes
Who said you could never buy love?
Love is nothing but a symbiotic
Parasite eating away at my knees
Love is nothing but a chemical in
Your mind. It isn't real but it
Means something. It means everything.
It's what makes this world go around.

Passion in the form of a pill
Says refill.
Passion in the form of a poem
Says throw me away.
Passion in the form of lust
Says be a stranger yourself.
Passion in the form of love
Says please forgive me I

Never meant to leave you high and dry
Come home. Darling I need you.
Passion in the form of a girl says I
Need to find something more for myself.

Keep on drinking alcoholic.
Keep on dreaming make-believer.
For the sound of glory will
In time open up its wings and
It will enfold you completely
You'll hear violins weeping for
You as you exit your body and
Return to the source of this
Circuitry and you'll be reborn.
You will rise from your ashes
And this parasite will be gone.
Eradicated from your consciousness
Erased and forgotten and when you

Taste the summer air
From the hills of this
Reformed countryside
Clean and full of life.
No secondhand smoke to
Crowd you in the corner
Of this room. No more.
You can taste the fresh
Apples hanging from trees
And smell the flowers that
Are blowing in the breeze.
You finally feel complete.

A mental picture.

Blood... dripping from the ceiling like rain seeping its way through like a leak that I refuse to fix (but I say I'm going to).

Downpour. Let the flood swell and take us away. We're trying to breathe but the taste of copper is overwhelming. There's the muffled sound of a stereo coming through the walls. Talk radio at the highest volume. This could overwhelm the sound of a jet if it were in the same room but it's stifled by the drywall.

Oh my god it tastes like blood.