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Beauty cannot be measured,

Nor can it possibly be the only thing that matters,

But perception is reality,

And what the human mind believes instantly morphs into truth,

I am a slave to its tyranny,

I am no princess by blood,

I am all I am,

A pauper buried in the snow,

Snow that is so perfect and fine,

Snow that if tainted is no longer beautiful and white,

Like many girls,

I embroider my body,

I adorn myself with jewelry,

And paint myself with make up in hope that someone,

Anyone out there may think that I am beautiful,

For the world knows that princes care nothing for the paupers,

Only princesses do they adore,

So when I take off my make up and leave my tresses uncombed,

You no longer have the snow,

But now you are looking at the grass after a storm,

Bare,

with colors in its natural state,

I am me,

I am me with no filter. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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