She had donned the perfect little black dress
Worn high heels, used cosmetics expensive
Carried a fabulous handbag, but she did confess-
Despite the investment in her looks extensive
Despite the appreciative stares from the crowd
Despite knowing that stunning she appeared
Her happiness was eclipsed by the cloud
Of a voice that had its disruptive head reared..
“This is not you”- her conscience reprimanded
“Do you get fulfilment from this masquerade?”
The persistent voice within her soul demanded..
She knew the answer though she was torn
Seeing successful women she had fantasized
For many years, of being a glamorous icon
Now that she was there, she was being chastised
By none other than her own conscience
She looked like a generic socialite, it was true
Being out of place, she lacked the confidence
That is worn by the glamorous women true blue..
Once she had stepped out of the party
She realized how stifling it had been throughout
She would never try to belong to the glitterati
This kind of glamor she could do without..
**
Back in her domain (an intellectual one), she realized
She was truly glamorous in her own way
When she wore confidence like an accessory prized
She could steal the thunder from anyone, any day!
