It’s hard to grow up in a world where you feel like you will never be pretty enough, when what you see in the mirror disappoints you, and when you believe your looks are a necessity in every aspect of life; popularity, happiness, relationships, career and so on.
Reading through my old poems, written by the girl who had fire in her heart and a thorough imagination fueling up her mind, brings back memories. Memories of how the younger me used to feel: not pretty enough.
I wrote this poem when I was a fifteen years old high school student. It was a time where I craved that unattainable “perfect” image; when I craved to be a paragon of beauty.
Once upon a dream,
Under the moonbeam,
I was pretty as pretty could be,
For once I was happy being me,
My tears dried away one by one,
My joy had only begun,
My flaws all became perfections,
I smiled back at my own reflection,
My silk hair was as soft as lace,
And never was it out of place,
On me the wind calmly gave a blow,
And my smooth skin shone out with glow,
In a pretty little white dress I stood,
Played along with music too good,
I danced like any ballerina girl,
With my tiara and beads of pearl,
There i was in the light of beauty,
So far away from reality,
My eyes sparkled with hopefulness,
Forgetting this was a dream, No more, No less