Scars, daily reminders of mistakes caused by insecurities.
She was told, black is sad, black is ugly,
she believed and curled into a fur-ball of insecurities and inferiority.
A voice awakened her mind saying;
“Look at the mirror, isn’t black beautiful?”
she thought; “yes it is..”
The voice continued,”make a difference, show them,
show them that it is as beautiful as other colors are,
It’s a color that can’t be bought, it is priceless
now show the world how elegant it is
don’t accept what the world is saying, you are your own self.
After that realization, She walked with her head high,
she beamed with confidence and happiness, happiness that was unknown to all she passed by.
Though she’s got scars, she accepted them knowing that her flaws makes her beautiful.
Ignored all mockery and chose to smile,
hurts hasn’t restrained her heart of love,
a dark pit of sadness in her that she has covered with her cheeky smiles.
In her weaknesses, she decided to be strong,
moved away from the idle tongues and started working on her self.
She wants to be self made, she’s on the road to that. 
Tayoloye's blog 
Yessss baby💕
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I am so unsurprised you wrote this so well, Frieda. Roads without stones and pebbles often lead nowhere promising or rewarding. Keep collecting and treasuring the bumps and bruises – they add to your beauty!
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Love the pacing and structure, scars are reminders of tough times but can serve as memories of experience as well. Wonderfully written
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Intriguing, good choice of vocabulary, simple and motivating
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Actually, beautiful lady, there is no color black; just as there is no color white. Neither exists as pigment nor as wavelength. Unhappily some give proof to simplistic fear called hate and, worse, called condition and then go about inventing measures by which all such hues of human oneness are judged and valued, included or banished. Personally, I prefer my coloration to be termed pink, and chortle over the imagery of some self-styled badass making mock of someone else whom he believes is right to fear and loathe and subjugate; and there’s an converse hiding in those past few words as well. Lola, I loved your poem and ached with a wrenched heart that for a time you judged yourself on others’ words or deeds. Only you, dear lady; only you! Beauty is a condition exuded not on-painted or decided by some arbitrary panel of apologists for their own ignorant prejudices. Thus endeth the sermon; there will be no collect: now, turn to page 1 in your own hymnal and sing I Am So Beautiful. Do it twice.
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