Like a yearning young bloom
Soft delicate in the skyline
Unfathomable in gold pink

Is it true that I'm bruised,because when I look into the mirror
I only see a blooming Mongolia

How come you see bruises laced in plum at the sight of my face
Is it an reflection of my soul, or the deceit of yours.

Maybe it's just our perception of me
I never fitted into a shallow mold of amused society
But I've always believed in handcrafted with grace