She envies those with clear complexion,
Bolder lines or styled perfection,
Longs for leaves with different shape,
Curly locks instead of crepe;
She notices when other flowers
Spread their scent in evening hours,
Wishes she could clone the rose,
Or wear the Lady Slipper’s clothes.
She doesn’t see as her eyes wander
Yearning for whatever’s yonder,
She’s been painted, leaf to stem,
In beauty that could rival them.