If I wrote, and only wrote,
Without stopping off to think,
Would it undo this little curse,
Or would it turn out only bleak?
Could I find words to keep writing?
Would it sound in ways of sense?
Or would I be swallowed down
By cursed diffidence?

Eye of the Beholder

I’m not like so many other girls,
Fretting over size:
I couldn’t care less how my body
Seems in others’ eyes.

Or so, at least, I tell myself.
But after all, why should I care?
I have my soul, and my blue eyes,
And my own long brown hair.

And yet still, there are people
Cutting up prettier faces;
And far prettier complexions
Are twisted, frozen in their places;

And the prettiest of all
Is still called ugly by the mirror;
So they make another cut,
Hoping to bring perfection nearer.