They walk by,
All in their little cliques,
Gossiping about their "pathetic"
Multi-million dollar horses.
I feel them judging me...
I don't have a slender figure
And my horse is worth a mere
Fifty-thousand.
Maybe.
My curvy size-10/12 hourglass figure
Rides in a Barnsby saddle,
Not a five figure Custom,
And my rough hands
Are wrapped in the gloves from the sale rack.
How is it, then
If they are so elite
And I -
so inferior,
That I always beat then?
Because I have something they don't.
I have a heart.
I'm not an "equestrian betch" as they brag.
I'm a girl,
With a dream
Who was given a shot
With an unbroken horse.
I'm a girl who reads books
Instead of slutting around.
They curse as I ride by,
Blue-threaded medal in hand.
I wouldn't trade my horse for the world.
We have a connection so deep
We can transfer thoughts
With no signals added.
So you can judge.
You can call me a fat wanna-be.
But at the very core,
I'm everything I want to be:
Nothing that they are.