It makes me angry
That I cannot escape visual dissection
in my favourite place of words.
One picture
And a few hundred poems
But it seems I must be judged by the former.
Apparently,
I am trying to be popular,
I have machiavellian mammaries,
Cynically garnering votes.
Capable of that, it would seem,
But not of writing something worth reading.
I am angry that I allowed myself
To hide, anxious and afraid of upset,
I refuse to feel ashamed.
I am here.
Here I am.
I'm beautiful INSIDE.