I live in a country were pale skin is considered pretty
Which is an irony
Because most people are brown, bronze, dark, or colored
They look at me with envy
And say I’m lucky…
Only because I’m pale, that they think me a beauty.
Almost everyone here wants snow white skin
While I think “morenos” or “morenas” are beautiful
But I don’t try to change my skin color
Unlike most I see around me
If beauty is just skin deep
Then I don’t want to be considered beautiful
I’d rather be seen as pretty because of my dry wit and sarcasm
Because of my intelligence and quirkiness
I’ll shed this pale white skin
And be a different kind of beauty
She needed to change
She could feel it
It was a necessity
So she let it
Her brown hair, was slowly becoming black
Her eyes, more brown than anyone could ever dream of
Deep inside she’s the same
And so her chestnut is no more
Her transformation, complete
She is now known as the girl with jet black hair
Her eyes were brown and they shown bright whenever she saw the stars
There were times she wanted to be alone just because
She did not want to know of time for time was often in a hurry
She sat there with all the time she had and her brown eyes were more brown than ever
eyes of grey tear me apart
the longingness, the emptiness, the mischievous smile
behind those eyes of yours
crippling my very soul to the brink of extinction
what do those eyes of yours say?
I couldn’t quite figure out.
i’m falling into the void, at a loss….
…for words are nothing compared to those eyes
it sees eternity, an endless serenity
my chaotic mind twitches at the sight of it
oh! how deep and dark are those grey eyes
that hold me, that confuses me
yet still I can’t help but be drawn to its magic
it’s power over me is strong
and I still can’t unerstand what they might
or would ever mean as they stare back into
these brown eyes of mine
what do they see?
I can’t help but wonder……
When I go up through the mowing field,
The headless aftermath,
Smooth-laid like thatch with the heavy dew,
Half closes the garden path.
And when I come to the garden ground,
The whir of sober birds
Up from the tangle of withered weeds
Is sadder than any words
A tree beside the wall stands bare,
But a leaf that lingered brown,
Disturbed, I doubt not, by my thought,
Comes softly rattling down.
I end not far from my going forth
By picking the faded blue
Of the last remaining aster flower
To carry again to you.
– Robert Frost