There's a beauty in my life,
A beauty all the world can see.
A beauty that cuts like a knife,
A beauty that's denied to me.

The beauty has me in its grip,
It's perfect, each and every way.
But I can never make a slip,
And give my guilty thoughts away.

The beauty there is not for me,
And I'm the only one that sees it.
My life's a painful irony,
A joke that no one else will get.

I take a hundred thousand glances,
Out the corner of my eye.
Each day I take a million chances,
But I keep up my life's great lie.

A masterpiece of shape and fit,
Exists for all the world to see.
But I cannot gaze upon it,
The ones who look can't include me.

My beauty's eyes are magnetized,
I barely pull my gaze away,
But never will those magnet eyes
Turn to my face and ever stay.

Oh how I want to gaze forever
At that beauty pure and sweet!
How I know that I will never
That ambition ever meet!

Does the beauty want to face me?
Does the beauty turn my way?
Does the beauty wish to meet me?
Would my beauty ever say?

No, I know the answers there,
Though I wish the truth were lie.
If there's a beauty out there somewhere,
It hides itself as well as I.

Every day I taste the scent
Of the world's finest bouquet.
And though I'll always long to sip,
The cup will never pass my way.

Yes, the wine that is my beauty
Is a deep and potent brew,
And though there's wine to fill the sea,
The fates tell me "it's not for you."

My days are filled with painful glances,
For the pleasure they provide.
But for every glance I take,
My pain is tenfold magnified.

For mine is a pain of cold denial,
The denial of an empty space.
A space created by a question,
With nothing in the answer's place.

Each day I die a little more,
As I steal another glance.
But I will never close the door,
As long as there remains a chance...

I have a terrible secret,
It's wrapped in guilt and shame.
And until I give it to the world,
I cannot name my beauty's name!

Every day I see a beauty, a complete, sublime, heart-breakingly beautiful figure. But I can't tell them about my feelings. I can't tell anyone about my feelings, because they're feelings I'm not supposed to have. I can't even look at the beauty. I have to pretend I can't see it, pretend it's not there, pretend a hundred thousand furtive glances at it every time I'm near it are all casual glances at other things. I can look everywhere but straight ahead. A beauty greater than any other I've seen exists and I have never seen it all at once, because I can't be seen to be seeing. I can never look into the eyes of the beauty as I so long to do and just drink in endlessly the sensation of their beauty.

Does the beauty feel the same way? I don't know, because there's no way to tell them. Does the beauty look at me? I don't know. Does anyone look at me? Is there some hidden beauty in the world that hides its glances as skillfully as I hide mine? I can't tell. And I'll never find out, because there's no way for them to tell me. Every day I sniff a thousand times the aroma of the sweetest wine, but each scent is fleeting and insubstantial, and no matter how many times the mere scent overpowers my senses, I can never take even the tiniest sip from a cup that could hold oceans.

Every day I steal a hundred fleeting images for the enormous pleasure they provide, but with each glance comes a stabbing pain of denial, endless, constant, unthinking, unfeeling denial, the denial of a brick wall, the denial of an empty space, a denial far worse than mere rejection in its uncertainty. The pain is slowly killing me, the pain is real and endless, and the more I try to ease my pain, the worse it gets, it's like a drug, a perfect drug that never kills me but drives me ever onward to an unfulfilled infinity.