She paints on a face
She paints on a face again
She feels out of place
Even though her face is rather plain
She paints on a face
As insecure shadows chase From the rest of the human race
Then caught in an uncertain embrace
She paints on a face a little bit more
She bears little scars that tortures her brain
Has more tins of paint than in a paint store
Yet she's certainly gorgeous plain
She delicately squirts a few sprays on her hair
The flowery scent sweetly lingers the aromatic air
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem