So, is this his fate?

To be hated,


Entangled in a constant web of uncertainties?

Was this the way it was intended,

From his birth,

Not sixteen years past?

His sacred conception was confused, he is sure.

"This was not the way I was meant to be."

So, is this his fate?

His body is unsatisfactory,

His shoulders too broad.

His breast too flat.

His voice too deep.

His unhappy,

But he knows what would heal his pain.

So, is this his fate?

Under the contemptuous eye of the world,

He changes.

His eyebrows thin,

His eyes are encircled in makeup,



And the deepest black.

Gone is the baggy denim, the uniform of the masses,

Replaced with tank tops, skirts, and eight-inch heels.

He feels renewed, replenished with hope,

Maybe he even feels


A/N: I'm not too great at poetry, but occaisonally something I sort of like will pour out of me, and this is one of those. I hope you like it, leave a review, please!