The most rhymed word
In the poetry world is
Me.
That reveals volumes about
Us.

There are those who’d curse the paintings
That held the highest beauty
For being formed from something
Impermanent as oil and paint
Intangible as light.

There are those who’d curse a romeo
Cast in stone relief
For such vanity, and hubris
For how could such a man
Begin to know such beauty and
The truth of open feeling?

There are those who would cut this holy wire
That tethers us across the world
For fear of some lurking evil
Some banging in the dark
That’s bound to take our souls away
Some lack of love or depth

There are those who’d see the flesh on flesh
And cries like angelsong
And **** it for it’s fleetingness
For their father’s love was purer.
For their father’s love was strong
Their poor and lonely fathers
Cursed to loveless love

Oh brave new world that I have seen
That has such people in it!
Who cry for long-forgotten men
Yet **** the ones before them!

You can be anything, but not everything,
So why do we keep making people our everything’s when we are struggling to find that one thing that makes us, us ?

Why do we bend over backwards for love but don’t take the time to invest in ourselves ?

Instead of seeking validation from other people we should should be validating our own worth,

But of course we can’t seem to shake the addiction of gathering likes on social media so we show a little more skin and clamp our mouths shut since society doesn’t value opinions anymore.

We are sheep in a sea of vanity and political correctness. All clamoring over each other trying to come out on top.

No one wants to be unique anymore because you can’t trend individuality on Twitter. We are so dependent on instant gratification that we sleep with our phones Incase someone likes our posts at 3 am.

When’s the last time you saw a kid playing outside? These phone screens are like prison glass.


We are sheep in a sea of vanity and political correctness.

Self-indulgence
eats away at me
like my vanity
gnaws at the bones
of my bank account.

There is a vanity in me
not to think well of myself,
for I have yet to achieve such
but to please others,
to like myself more
through their good opinion.

There is a fear in me
in my mind, every night
the love others feel for me
is erased, set back like a clock.
Every day I must work,
earn their love all over again.
In the trappings of my own mind,
love is so easily lost.

There is a doubt in me
with my friends and loved ones.
I trust no one, not even myself.
It is as unfair to them as it is to me.
I decided young, perhaps wrongly,
That those who claim to love you,
even those who truly do love you,
can and will leave you behind.

There is a desire in me
to liberate myself, to love myself
as I have never truly done.
I fear that in loving myself,
I will become something foolish.
Even still, despite my intent,
with a complete lack of trust
I am still that arrogant fool.

Stare yourself down
Just avoid the eyes, let's not make this personal
Soak in the amplified reflection
Feed on your favourite highlights
Toss away the bones for the starving to chew
Capture this moment, forever flawless
Give the poor a feast for the eyes
You shine so bright
They will follow you little star
Hang off a string and lead them
They'll claw at your skin but never embrace you
They'll chomp at your flesh and leave a rotting core
You choose lust over love...
Trade self worth for compliments
Well then swallow your soul and drown in their praise
It will never be enough.

(Thoughts On Vanity)
I bandage my flaws but they never heal. Covered, still there. I paint the bandages pink, only temporary. I want to retreat into a shell where I can be safe and unseen. Vanity is a burden. It is a disease, an addiction and it is a distraction. Why must I be this way? Why do I care so much? Is it that I crave acceptance? I want to be loved, to be in love, can that happen for me? I await a dove to land on an alligator’s nose, thinking it’s a mossy log floating in the water, just as the alligator dies from heart failure. I await perfection. The odds, though, weigh completely out of my favor. I feel like perfection is just coincidences lined up just right until they are right where they should be. I’m not important enough for that. My goal here is to stop giving a ****. Help?
END

When you're immortal
all beauty is left to wilt
except your own reflection,
you can't help but to fall
in love with yourself.

I bandage my flaws but they never heal. Covered, still there. I paint the bandages pink, only temporary. I want to retreat into a shell where I can be safe and unseen. Vanity is a burden. It is a disease, an addiction and it is a distraction. Why must I be this way? Why do I care so much? Is it that I crave acceptance? I want to be loved, to be in love, can that happen for me? I await a dove to land on an alligator’s nose, thinking it’s a mossy log floating in the water, just as the alligator dies from heart failure. I await perfection. The odds, though, weigh completely out of my favor. I feel like perfection is just coincidences lined up just right until they are right where they should be. I’m not important enough for that. My goal here is to stop giving a ****. Help?
END