Through the Iron Maiden’s bars
I spy a fairyland, a place
where peace grows, seeded row by row
with roots of safety, soil of grace.
But Iron Maiden bids me stay,
she bars the path to enter in;
whispers how I don’t belong,
hints at defect deep within
so here I stop, with longing gaze,
aching for the scene I spy,
wanting Eden’s leafy rest,
believing Iron Maiden’s lie.
No Botox here.
Braces weren’t in the cards.
Scoliosis made sure you couldn’t walk with a stack of books on your head,
so your gait is – awkward. Mincing.
You never had the time or inclination to perm, straighten, tint, dye, crimp, or highlight.
You always dreamed of being loved by a handsome Prince
who would sweep you off your calloused feet
and love you for who you were.
You hadn’t reckoned on
being compared to the Kardashians,
competing with the pin-ups,
playing second-fiddle to an air-brushed myth.
So you settle for a frog prince,
warts and all,
and wait, alone,
night after night,
for your first kiss…
One of these things is not like the others,
One of these flowers is an island of blue;
She stands alone, amidst all the silver,
She isn’t ashamed of her different hue.
She isn’t aware that her petals’ arrangement
Stubbornly shouts out her personal flair;
She isn’t trying to mimic the snow-scape,
Or trying to squelch how she grows. Her air
Is one of contentment, of ‘I have arrived!’
She blooms where her seed has fallen by chance.
Her radiance, her difference, will draw all the eyes,
And hers is the visage that’s worth second glance.
Wipe the sweat from your brow,
Unfold the grimace from your stance;
You don’t need to work now
To earn what natural romance
Has freely bestowed
Upon the fairness of your frame.
You are, as I know,
A rose by any other name…
