Take pity on the pretty ones,

whose burden is how they were made,

whose beauty wasn’t cast in bronze,

but flesh and bone designed to fade.


A dreamboat or a perfect ten,

our knees go wobbly in their wake,

the other women and the men,

adore them or they call them fake.


Such blessings are a latent curse,

they get to watch them decompose,

a process that they can’t reverse,

by rubbing cream around their nose.


It doesn’t matter if they care,

about the covers of their books,

when all their lives we point and stare,

they’re forced to focus on their looks.


I wonder if they had a say,

if they would pick the same again,

or maybe they’d meet God halfway,

with looks that got five out of ten.


shopping girl




Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s