Picturesque of a rose, I am not.
The one no one gives a second thought.
Might I follow in my sisters footsteps?
Strong willed, she never had a misstep.
But dusted hair will never be clean.
Dirtier blouse will never be sheen.
If I am to grow beautiful, then I will be cruel.
For this battle of wills may as well be a duel.
I will be my own way as,
Simple, hunble, and plain as,
A quiet man leaving the table sighed no jazz.
We leave the table as common topaz.
I'm not the best are poetry.
