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.