She walks into the room,
And everyone stops to stare.
She's so pretty,
It's almost unfair.
Her hair is shiny and long,
Her eyes brown like milk chocolate,
Her skin is flawless,
And her body is perfect.
Everyone wants to be her,
And everyone wants to be with her.
But they don't know her,
And they don't know what she's really like.
She's smart and funny and kind,
She's an amazing athlete,
And she's always there for her friends.
But no one sees that,

Sixty six - an unpoetic age
to pen, for plaudits, on this splintered stage.
My bones are aching and I need to rest
in dreamless sleep, on days when I’m depressed.

Poetry is wasted on the young,
while senile sonnets have to stay unsung!
An ageing poet’s, after all, a fool;
discarded, like an obsolescent tool.

“Old age is just a number,” so they say,
“The old are growing younger everyday!”
But I don't buy that patronising crap,
when every afternoon I need a nap!

Really I ain't poor,
The world tells me to want more.
Really I have enough,
Don't need yet more stuff.

I don't need yet more blings,
I have quite enough things.
Likely too many possessions,
What's with these buying obsessions?

And then when I really think,
My heart begins to sink.
When I look at my perceptions,
Rather than worldly expectations.

I see what I really need,
Not the wants I plead.
All the things that make me glad,
That take away my sense of sad.

In the realm of brown eyes and flowing hair,
A girl graced the world with beauty rare.
Yet, in her thoughts, a tumultuous sea,
Obsessed with appearance, it seemed to be.

She acknowledged her allure, without a doubt,
But yearned for more, a beauty to tout.
Her mind fixated on perfection's quest,
Determined to surpass, never to rest.

Why did she dwell on such futile thoughts?
Loneliness whispered, tying her in knots.
Dreams of flawlessness became her shield,
A refuge from rejections, yet unconcealed.