My Mother always told me,
no monster lived beneath my bed
But she failed to warn me,
It laid on top of it instead.

Skinnier waist and a prettier face?
Does not my personality shape my waist
Does the bitterness of this ugly desperation abbreviate a more a sweeter appreciation
Does my hair,
Be not gold
So I cannot be bold?
Or my eyes.
Be not blue.
Or my skin,
Fit not of colour chart approval?
The legs that enable me to walk
that I so much hate,
may serve a more neglected fate.
All the thoughts a mind can process,
shall be which of sure debate,
Not but of the demons which it creates.