Browbeaten

Oh, how my eyebrows seem to bow,
To mark where life has got me now.
Each furrow etched across my brows
Defies what my well-swept hair allows.

My brow is bossy, yet will not kowtow,
It tells the world what's here and now.
Before I've spoken, it's clear somehow!
With the truth written on my brow.

It arches high when dreams take wing,
Then droops down low, when doubt sink in.
It charts each worry, joy, and vow—
In life's diary written on a brow.

Some call me highbrow, some say not.
Some a lobrow, all tied in a knot.
Such labels rise, and fall to new lows.
My brow wears none — it simply shows.

Alas, my brow will never ever lie;
It speaks before I can wonder why.
My eyebrows rise, my forehead pleads,
Confessing more than my face concedes.

So I don't beat my brow in vain,
Or wear it smooth, with needless strain.
It lifts with hope, it softens with care,
I trace the lines onto where I dare.

So my brow-beaten brow of mine
That traces all my worries, line by line
Your furrows are not my fault, somehow—
But the quirk of eyebrows on the plough.

angstanxietyemotionslyric

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