i love the color of my hair

brown red and in some places pink

my tired legs and lined filled hands

eyes that stare flat beyond the sky

and a mind that has lost the hard shell

of youthful indulgence and inexperience

i love my lips still round and plump

and the new found freedom

of spouting my own thoughts

that are crafted with the filigree of wisdom

i love my face

oh those expression lines

that will never be usurped by botox

my cheek bones high and tight

to frame a genuine smile at the wind

i love my hair when she gets wild

and i walk the streets of Beverly Hills

stroll in the Rolls Royce isles

worn out Chucks with the strategic tears

where the toes are too tight

salesmen follow me with Lysol cans

and their neat white gloves

that eradicate the traces of the hoi polloi

the hair a right of passage glorious

furious bright riot

reminding me that my agedness

is a catalyst to the third eye lens

from where i can finally see

the dimensions of the world

the good and the bad

and really only give a damn

about the moments that matter