Trapped in a body called horrid...grotesque'
The object of contempt and scorn
I have lived for years, and- though doing my best-
I sometimes regret I was born.

Why was I made for this sorry fate?
Why did God choose me and not others,
doomed to a life in this wretched state,
mocked by my sisters and brothers.

Watching the ladies as they pass
their faces torn between pity and horror
Seeing that expression on such a fair lass
Makes my weary heart hurt so much more.

Is it too much, I ask, to see past the face,
the feet and the hand of tough skin?
Why am I forsaken by my own race,
just for the body I'm in?

So again I sit, night after night,
alone in this cramped little room
Praying for a beacon of God or man's light
to cut through this aura of gloom.