Hair the color of dusty road,

Eyes that do not shine like gold,

She bursts with stories that can’t be told.

Not of the fair nor the dark,

Art will withhold divinest spark.


Who is she, no one knows,

Not her friends or her foes.

No one sees the wilted rose.

Lonely even when all surround,

A girl lost even when she’s found.


Of average build, she hides her weight,

Afraid she’ll meet her family fate,

Afraid it’s already too late.

In a world that runs so fast,

She is bound to come in last.


But still maybe she could be,

Proud, successful, brave, and free.

Yes, perhaps that is she.

Still, if given the chance she might,

Continue to hide, behind black and white.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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