My dear baby girl, even if I haven’t given birth to you, read this, remember this.
Your lips are perfect with or without its cupid bow
you do not need to taint it a color just to show,
need no guy to mess it up
your lips are you part, wear it with pride butter cup.
Your eyes are milky white clouds with coffee drops
you do not have it line it and wear it as a prop
they are a window to your soul
don’t let anyone drown you whole.
Your curve can be a straight line or no where near
let that not be an object to sneer
Your legs are your tools as your hands
do not trim it for the worldly lands.
Whatever the size of your dress is
don’t let the be the criteria of love or anything as it is
your skin color does not decide the beauty of your soul
never let that become a reason of downfall
Chin up, princess, don’t let the tiara fall
you are a princess, no matter what who calls.
My dear baby girl, you aren’t an object to be admired
you are such a fine creation, you need to served.
Scripts Of My Heart 