She’s not a girl you’d pass by on the street
and spare a second fleeting thought,
Nor living within the glossy magazines you read
whose looks you’ve always greatly sought,
She’s a string in a resounding symphony
a note lost in sweet sound of melody
She’s a dab of paint on the canvas
but she doesn’t apologise—she forms the picture,
She’s a tiny flower plucked from the earth
       but she blooms for all she’s worth.