Coming back from holiday.
"Great colour," they say.
Leaving the beach, from laying on the bay.
"Great colour," they say.
Praises abound for the beautifully tanned hues, but I get none, because my covering, I didn't choose.
These tracks on my face, are the tracks of my tears, so deep, no need to trace.
You see, this skin I can't decide to jump in. It's not a fad, a phase, nor something that gets the ever popular "Great colour" praise.
I cry inside, from a song which I've sung... the chorus rings out:
"On this ladder of life, you're still the bottom rung."
~Angela Roache~