How heavy the mask that sits on my cheeks,
How burdonsome the costume that hangs on me;
How stifled I am by cosmetics so thick,
How strange the aura that exudes without;
How strangled I am beneath this masquerade,
How weary I am of running this parade.
Like a beast unfed and bound at all feet,
I thrash within to be set free.
I am no specimen for a scientist's trial,
Nor have I beauty through a camera's eyes.
There will be no praise from an idealist's lips,
Nor there bids were I on a painter's art.
But I am as I'm made by my Potter's hand,
Every crevice every print, every detail finely planned.
So now I present Miss Imperfect,
Tired of pretending, ready to amend.

When,
will you come?
Under the creaking branches
Beneath the wilting leaves
A maiden sits and dreams
Awaiting his shadow
Awaiting his hand
When,
will you ever come?
Under the moonlight pale and blue
She hears the sound of its approaching hoofs
The mare that carries her prince