It's one thing to be known for, though it won't last forever.
This thing they say lies in the eye of the beholder.
And yet I see it not when I stand before a mirror,
what about my visage sends crowds into a fever.
Have I been reduced to nothing but just a fine face:
a pretty thing to look at in a crowded place?
Embraced by the darkness of an unholy grace,
I'm no more than a gem floating about in space.
What value is left for what's solely coveted
when tasted by many and left undefended?
When hope is a drug for one who's pretended
for so long that it's alright once it's ended,
Is there worth in what's empty? A hollow shell?
After heaving and spewing hot tears from hell.
But as long as I'm pretty, it will all be well.
As long as there's beauty and physique to sell.
There is pain in ignoring the words they say.
Nothing more than "you look beautiful today."
Nothing more than the contagion in the way
they say my smile can brighten up a day.
Yet with where I am now, I just wish I weren't
gorgeous, pretty, or lovely, a nice looking cunt.
Maybe if good-looking was something I wasn't,
I wouldn't be hurting, feeling spent or burnt.
Will I spend my whole life running from hands
who only want to touch me and feel me up grand?
Only to run to hands who will be nice and
not leave me crawling in the gravel and sand?
Words and rhymes are valueless as my plea,
if it isn't something on my face all can see.
Though my heart is as vast and as deep as the sea,
It's the last thought of anyone who looks at me.