I once knew a girl who was born fatherless

With a mother's love, though she was no one's wife

The girl, not hopeless, not cursed, not blessed

But trying to make the best out of her life.

Her face was rather plain, except her smile

Made luminescent two plain emerald eyes

Her hair was straight, no texture to beguile

No great reward, no wondrous prize.

Her best friend she's read thirteen times,

Submerging in Jane Eyre's love and rebirth.

And when she was done, she'd sit every time

And wished she existed in a world of such worth.

She cannot sing, but she loves the way

A songwill shake her till she cries

Then make her laugh at how life goes astray

From the way you thought that it would arise.

She loves to laugh at old clichés

Finds humor in things most sordid

Yet knows when to sit and watch the sun's rays

And contemplate that which she's been afforded

She's no great author, but one cold night

She picked up her pen and a glass of iced tea

With a story of sadness and hope and delight

She sat and wrote her autobiography