There's a pit where my heart should be And it'd **** me if you found out, But I suppose there's no reason you could, Not when the writing's this ugly. I don't even have a doubt.
The marks that I got were accepted, Except for the "two" in my scripting "Untidy and dull. Short and fat," She wrote in perfect penman's art. Well I didn't care too much for that.
And I watched them pass under the scope, Fluttering dove feathers with delicate designs, Learning what they meant, not what was drawn In bronze or cream or scarlet masks, Where all traces of blank spaces were gone.
But the mind learns what wasn't taught And then the eyes can't help but see The pretty slants of every letter and The smooth curves between the words That draw in the reader oh-so lustfully.
Without a care to what was written, The mind befalls upon the neat, Tidy, perfect, intricacy of handwriting. And I could soon see for myself That I lacked this very crucial feat.
And all my work became so obsolete. My stories offered so much more, but THEY, They had the notebooks with the colored cover. The pages wrought to dust inside But people tend to push that all away.
So my silken words in their ugly ink Fell into the shelves without a trace. All they wanted was to be seen From inside, but now they're too ashamed To begin the story with such a rotten face.
I feel so ugly, I can't even look in a mirror... I want a guy but how can anyone want me when this is what they see?!?! (A typo made me change "sullen" to "silken")