Cool swirling chilly wind,
Wooly sweaters worn tight around,
The frame of an odd duckling.
Stares from onlookers,
Annoy the spirits,
Arouse interest onto this odd foreign one.
They stare still,
Boring holes on my image,
Attempts to scare give discomfort,
Are completely fruitless.
I am astounded,
Havent they ever seen a half-blood?
But they might be jealous of the youth,
I have now.
That they lost long ago.
Sadly they cant regain it,
Once lost its not coming back,
For if they do try they’d end up looking,
Like Dolly Parton.
Absolutely scary, bloody nightmare.
But I cant say, if its horrid,
Its plain disturbing,
To let another cut the fleshy bits from one’s face,
And tinker to make the visage seem,
Much more perfect in a way,
It’s an ideal, fleeting versions of what a beauty should look like.
But there is so many forms for beauty.
And not all will be a certain size.