Ivy Anxious

Ivy Anxious was a blonde
Dyed died brunette
With big blue eyes that drank in seas
And lips stuck any color she pleased

Though Ivy Anxious limped a little
And sometimes found herself in hospital
She reached for her dream of
Being best at hair styling

And most days you could catch her
At salon boot camp sequestered
And squished in between
Egos and very high esteem

Ivy Anxious never felt that well
Even dreaming was a kind of hell
Waking screaming some days
Early in the morning

And at points stuck with pain
So unbearable she might faint
Yet still she cut through nightmares
And focused on aesthetic affairs

Pageants, photo ops, and boot camp on mind
She looks serene in those photos
But no one might be the wiser
To blood she shed as a splicer

When she nicked fingers with scissors
And composedly panicked in the loss
Ivy Anxious could well gloss
Over cuts embossed and cross

A haircut off her appointment list
And still dye dark hair white
With expert affinity, rising
From bed more than willingly

Though she hurts most times inside
In waking life, Ivy Anxious
Could just as well bring you to life
By bravely making you beautiful

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