Her face is an empty, blank canvas,
just a blank space.
She believes it masks her femininity,
she feels just too much misplaced.
She grabs her brush, starts with the base,
she begins to feel more in place.
She applies it layer by layer, feeling more pretty,
bearing in mind no one will feel any pity.
Without her warpaint, she feels too defenceless,
weak and broken, she's completely powerless,
without this armour, she will crash and burn,
knowing one day these tables will never turn.
She begins to realise her canvas isn't the only problem,
but it's the stand beginning to collapse.
She changes her appetite with any excuse,
ignoring the fact it's just pure self-abuse.
People start to notice, people start to talk,
because everything she paints on can rub off like chalk.
Her canvas starts to tear and her stand begins to rust,
until her whole future turns into dust.
by Emer Stevens (14)
Competition - The Poetry Trials
Copyright remains with the author.