In the beauty pageants of our minds,

The ones we’re drug to,

And forced to compete in,

We grudgingly prepare.

But when we get a glimmer of ourselves 

Just as we reach some personal best,

And some critic pops in to say

That we’ve ended our sentence with a preposition,

Then must we know

We are getting close.

Raise your hands In victory!

Speak using the language of light!

Even your dna is unwinding,

And you will be alright, Grasshoppah.

Anything IS possible 

We CAN become an ant, or BETTER!

We can flip any script and see

A new way to enhance every fiber of our being:

Our bodies,

Our minds, 

Our energy.

We can even learn to unlearn,

And learn that it’s ok

To misspell things that don’t exist 

Except upon white pages,

Like words,

And maybe someday when we’re strong,

We can even be brave enough to end our sentences a preposition with!

But what will happen in the talent round?

How will we fare in Congeniality,

If we do not get ourselves sifted in the first rounds

Of the beauty pageant,

Especially the ones that only exist in the white pages of our own minds?

-jenn