Brows, brows; you frame my big brown eyes,
One of you points upwards - like I'm permo surprised.
The other grows straight; thin and in a line,
Wish I'd never discovered tweezers as a youth - then I'd have been fine.

Those parts I over-plucked, when I was young and dumb,
Will never grow back - and that fact ain't fun.
Now it's like 'Hair, why do you grow where you're not needed?
It's like you WANT me to look a tit - and you've bloody well succeeded.'

The shape between you differs loads - and your hair is sparse,
Without pencilling you on, I look like an arse.
But when alls said & done and I draw into my poem's last line,
I still wouldn't change my brows; because they're unique and they are MINE.

An Ode to My Eyebrows; the result of boredom, written from the heart [by me] on the 21/03/15 after another fight between the tweezers and my overall dignity.

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