Ode to my Face.

Why is it now, at thirty-six,
I am still wrestling with zits?
As a teen, I was then told,
When I was a little bit more old,
My face would soon be clean and clear,
From top to chin and ear to ear.
That was a big fat pack of lies,
My monthly cycle's advertised.
With painful whiteheads, on my chin,
Or at the corners of my grin.
The lovely glow of pregnancy?
Did not happen here for me.
Instead, blemishes galore,
They would clear up, and grow some more.
Added years have the result,
An injury on top of an insult,
Upon my lip, below my nose,
A nice thick mustache there now grows.

To find an optimistic spin,
About the horrors of my skin,
Instead of now feeling dejection,
About my dubious complexion,
I will embrace that I look youthful,
And I know that this is truthful,
Rather than looking gray and old,
If I may be in fact, so bold,
To say that I feel mirth and joy,
To have the face of a teenaged boy.