Pretty

I like pretty things.

I like to be pretty,

Too.

That’s fine.

There’s nothing wrong with it.

But sometimes I wonder,

If that is all,

That others see,

When they look at me.

When people ask me to talk about myself,

There is little I can say.

I get good grades;

I was student body president.

I can’t say these things,

Or it seems I’m boasting.

The things about me,

I’d most like you to know,

Are the things you have to stick around,

To find out.

People ask me what my hobbies are.

I say I have none,

Because I have no life,

Outside of school.

All that I can say about myself,

Makes me seem boring,

And excessively good.

People have this opinion,

That because I am good,

I can’t really have much else,

That could interest them.

They’d never know,

That I like to break rules.

I do what I am not supposed to,

Because I think it sounds fun.

I will do some strange things,

Because I have a little skill,

In making people laugh,

And I love to have fun.

I am spontaneous,

And I smile more than I frown.

I love to write,

And I love awesome quotes.

I am fiercely loyal to my friends,

And I will go to the ends of the Earth,

For them.

I have a tendency to do things for people,

Or give them gifts,

At times they weren’t expecting.

If I say I’ll do something,

You can bet I probably will.

All these things,

But no one bothers to see,

Past the small things.

I am fabulously flamboyant,

And my personanlity,

Is much bigger than my height.

My one desire,

Would be for people,

To look past the pretty,

Boring,

Exterior.

I want them to see,

The person I am.

Not the person,

They think I will be,

Based on their first judgement.

I want them to not just see a pretty window,

But to see the wonderful home,

The window belongs to.

There is more to me,

Than a first glance shows.

In fact,

There is more to everyone,

Than anyone can know.

I just wish,

They were willing,

To see.