Look at her.

Her nose belongs to a clown.
Her hair could use a shine.
Her teeth are yellowing.
Her double chin is starting to turn into three.
Her face could be skinnier.
Her body is disgusting.
Her clothes look like they’re from a second-hand store.
Her *** is flat.
Her ***** too small.
Her lips, you can barely see them at all.

You are her.
And she is beautiful.
Stop trying to be societal’s princess.

He asks his father for a dollar,
Instead tells him to become a scholar.

He digs into all his books,
Yet nothing ever really took.

Growing up, thinking he’s a failure,
Understanding he’ll never major.

Encouragement was never given,
Expected, neglected, but never driven.

“You could have done better”
Is all he heard,
Wishing so badly he could be a nerd.

A slice of advice to the father,
Would you, could you say that to your daughter?

Intelligence is not a science,
But you were supposed to be there for guidance.

Instead, you discouraged and degraded,
Now the only will and hope he has faded.

Would you go back and do it over?
Instead, would you lend your shoulder?

All he does is try to make you proud,
But all you do is spread more doubt.

As the sun faintly dims from the sky,
the thoughts arise.

Laying there, wondering.

Is this all there is?

“It most certainly is,”
the echo chants

“Don’t let your time elapse you.”

But remember in the dark of night,
For when it’s through.

And come morning light,
That echo’s staring right back at you.

You lay there in bed and you ask yourself,
when will I figure it out?

And you know,
deep, down inside,
you never will.

Like a rose, she has thorns,
Only to protect her

Like a rose, she is wild,
keeping her grounded.

Like a rose, she moves through phases,
Guiding her through growth.

Like a rose, she stands tall,
For she is brave.

Like a rose, she is nurtured,
increasing her wellbeing.

Unlike a rose,
she is blossoming every day.

She wonders around the hillside,
With no place to be.

Seeing an acorn fall from a tree,
She scurries on over to see nature’s gift.

Soon the spotlight is on something different;
Soon her course is adrift.

A butterfly, a rock, a leaf in the wind,

Always on the move,
With no place to be.

Offers of toys, and material goods,
But she’d rather settle on the woods

The sun, barely woken up itself,
shy’s just behind the tree-line.

Scampering to gather up their last belongings,
To drive awhile in silent morning.

Headed towards the still lakes,
Wondering if the fish are awake.

Casts that barely go anywhere, and
tangled lines that lead nowhere.


Little hands struggling,
To be like dad, to make him proud.

No fish yet,
but there’s still time.

Determined little ones are they,
For they just want to spend their day,
Fishing, existing with their dad.