This was written in response to something one of my friends told me.

Why do you lie to me
And tell me that I'm beautiful?
Beauty's not what we see, you say—
It comes from within.
I've heard it all before;
Words meant to comfort those who possess
No natural beauty of their own.

I am not beautiful.

You tell me I have a caring soul,
That I am a friend in need;
I'm so good to those around me.
This is what makes you beautiful, you say.
You don't see the ugly selfishness,
Jealousy springing from bitter roots
To poison my already troubled mind.

I am not beautiful.

It seems there is an inner radiance shining through,
A light only I cannot see.
I am unaware of any such light residing in me,
And am in fact doubtful of its very existence.
Your innocence makes you beautiful in my eyes, you say.
I wish I could remove the innocence,
See myself as someone truly of worth.

But I am not beautiful.

And so I trudge wearily on,
Seeing beauty in all of those around me,
And I long for a moment to even just be called
Pretty.
You will always be beautiful to me, you say.
But I am nothing special;
I'm just me.

And I am not beautiful.