Being Beautiful

It must be quite the burden

being beautiful and fair.

Oh, the jealousy it must invoke

compounding your despair.

 

I get it.

I think I understand.

Beauty is a ball

every woman would attend.

 

But, few ever get invited.

They’re just waiting in the wings,

plotting to tear you down

and make you feel their jealous sting.

 

Some will crash the ball,

wearing masks and being petty,

but they’re truly ugly creatures

with hearts colder than a yeti.

 

They’re cruel to other women,

enslaving men they may have fooled.

They’re redefining what you are,

transforming beauty into a tool.

 

The men are worse I fear.

They see your beauty as a cliff

to be climbed and conquered

or unwrapped like christmas gifts.

 

Though you wish they’d see beyond it,

I can tell by your troubled sighs.

The greatest problem in your life

are the men craving what’s between your thighs.

 

So, I understand why you are jaded.

Why you shroud yourself in ice.

It’s because you think I’m latest man

to come to you with lies.

 

When I tell you that you’re beautiful,

it’s because I want to hold your hand

and learn the little secrets

you hide from the race of man.

 

You’re not a unicorn.

You’re a woman made flesh.

Though your beauty feels like magic,

it haunts you half to death.

 

You’re your own worst problem–

A woman nobody knows–

because the only reason one might want to

is for the beauty beneath your clothes.