Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mar 2016
One, two, three... pop
Pimples, all gone
Brush, brush, brush... swift
Any more imperfections to hide? Nope, all clear

Now tell me mirror, is it pureness that you see?
For this is not me, nor what I intend to be
Watching me grow from dauntless to wanting to appear so dear
Oh how I wish I could polish the years of society's willingness to rule me so utterly
Its' footsteps stomping its' way down my back, still, I persevere...

Tell me mirror, does it hurt?
Does it hurt witnessing me go all the way from oh so untethered to oh no, petrified of every little flaw?
Does it hurt viewing my eyes water as I double-check just to make sure?
To make sure no living soul feels intimidated by natural flaw?
If so, does it tare you little by little inside?

Forced to look me in the eye, whilst the words 'not good enough' appear on my forehead
Does it **** you more more inside as you grow old, glass getting rusty, not being able to tell me how beautiful in fact I am?
Angelina
Written by
Angelina  18/F
(18/F)   
913
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems