My Mom Says I’m Pretty

“Hey, pretty girl,” she says,
Smiling a good morning
and to her it will never matter
About the wet hair that frizzes,
The glasses, the little zit on my chin,
The fact that my eyes can’t decide
If they want to be blue or green,
and have a rim of gold
She’ll never care about the old T-shirt
For a concert by a band that I bet
you’ve never heard of-
To her, no matter what I wear
or how many zits I get
or how many days in a row in summer I wear long jeans
I will always be pretty
And she will always love me

And this is why I’m so aggravated with myself!
I have a family that tells me I’m beautiful
I’m confident; I’ve been raised to love who I am
but not get selfish
I am blessed and blessed and my cup is overflowing
And my mom says I’m pretty
So why in the world do I care what you think?
Why does your opinion even matter to me?
Why are you in my mind as I select an outfit each morning
If I have a mom who tells me I’m pretty?
I wish I didn’t wonder so much
If you won’t like that old concert T-shirt


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