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