American Beauty

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: May 24, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: May 24, 2018



American Beauty


She is made. Built. From dirt up.

In fact, her feet are dirty,

Because she’s walked many a mile,

Truckin’ the land.

Truckin’ the land where it was all built.


Keep going.


You move up her legs,

And they’re miles long,

Like the miles of time she’s spent.

There are dimples in her knees and calves,

Like little valleys where we travel like lowlifes.


Keep going.


Her womb is the cradle that said,

“Behind every great man there is a strong woman.”

Without her, he couldn’t have,

Wouldn’t have

Built it. The curves of her body,

Are winding roads in the heart,

Where you drive to get away for a while.

They swing around you,

Like a needle swings around a needle in its groove.


Keep going.


Her bosom is ample and abundant,


But her shoulders are dainty.

Together, it makes her pretty sturdy,

But you wouldn’t know it looking at her,

Because her heart explodes with both,

Pain and pleasure.


It’s come so far,


It’s gone somewhere and nowhere at the same time,

Because people are weird.

Well, at least there’s a place to get away,

Where little people live.

At least there’s a place,

Where people still know how to want,

Without words, but actions.


Anyway, keep going.


When you get to her neck,

You just want to rub her shoulders,

Because everything is so tight.

But that’s what happens,

When she bares the weight of the world.


Keep going.


Her face,

At first you’re unimpressed,

Because it’s sturdy, pretty, but plain.

But look closer.

Her full, pinkish lips,

Have this mischievous, quiet smile.

What’s she thinkin’?

You just don’t know.

But you know she’s stepping high,

And ambition is the tune she stomps,

On the sidewalk of the city.


There’s a glow to her cheeks.

The woman walks among us,

But the girl lives within.

But, the truth is in her eyes.

Blue has never been made of so many different colors.

And they see with the color visionary,

But they don’t see at the same time.

There’s so much left,

And she’s not even happy with this poem,

Because so much is left.


But then she sees…


It’s still being built.

And she just smiles,

And plays with the hair that’s grayed,

With the years.


© Copyright 2019 Arminda B. Roddy. All rights reserved.

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