The Thing Of Beauty

Is there any joy to the ‘thing of beauty’,
Despite being, to you, a joy forever?

I have to bear being treated like an object,
The leers, ogles and irks are paining scars, they eject.

From top to down, I am scanned.
Those eyes disrobe me, I feel ill and banned.

Those belittled remarks pierce me.
I bleed but move on, for there is supposedly a belle in me.

Unfortunate! Heavy load is this gifted charm,
To me and my loved ones, it does no good but only harm.

Conscious! Alarmed! Scared! I keep walking.
Hush! I might be judged. I am not allowed to be talking.

I’ve heard there are gardens, and chirps, and scents, on my way, across fences.
But I don’t know, all I remember is silence; silences.

There are moments of compliments when all around, good vibes, I see.
But in a speck, I am warned there are acids sold free.

My grief and mourns are all useless, in vain.
My tears have washed away in disguise along the rain.

I’ve heard that the radiance and spark are blessings I uphold.
But I cannot rejoice, for I am a Thing of Beauty, They said.

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