But her Soul Belongs to Demons

I see you there, you poor little girl.
You're stripped naked down to the core.
Your body is art, your face like a painting.
Your face is not covered,
Your eyes, not enhanced.
Your beauty is silent.
Natural.
Your eyes, how they shine,
Hope.
But there you are you work of art, with not a soul to admire you.


I see you there, you impish little girl.
You're dressed in barely anything at all.
Your body is a wonderland to curious eyes.
Your face is covered with a thin film of bottled perfection,
Your eyes are not even yours.
Your beauty is man made,
Corrupted.
Your eyes how they are bare,
False hope and glimmering generalities,
Nothing.
But there you are you man made thing, and oh how they love you.

Oh how they love the man made demon,
But oh how they shun the pure and innocent babe.
They tell all the little girls to be like demons,
They tell them they are prettier,
That they should all aspire to be like them.
So the pure and innocent babe will hang her head,
And become like the demons,
Because she used to be a work of unmarred art.
But she longs to be admired.

I wish that now I could tell that pure babe,
That I admired her greatly.
But I cannot now because her soul belongs to demons.
I wish that I could have told her she was beautiful,
That she need not change for others.
I wish I could tell her that she was beautiful,
To me.
So is it my fault?
Am I just another they?
I’m sorry, you pure innocent soul…