In the quitest corner of her bedroom
A woman stares back at the mirror
Wearing the latest dark lipstick on trend
With her near perfection sharp arced eyebrows
And her three inched high heels,

She stood there amazed yet unsatisfied
Not only on her outer being but also for her soul,
Even with all the planned efforts she made;
Regardless the sleepless nights of pure thinking;
Imagining possible outcomes for her definition of beauty

Unsatisfied she started to flip from pages to pages
Of magazines of models and celebrities in their best glamour
She imagined herself in those shoes and glamorous dresses
Gradually she added jewelry unto her bare skin
And painted her pale face with pink blush and mascara

She became a silent imitator, a copycat in other people's dictionary;
An imitation derived from the motivation for beauty
She saw upon the perfect photograph of a photoshopped model on the front page;
She have become so focus to others à la mode fashion
She failed to remember her own creative manners of beauty

This goes on and on and on, it felt like forever;
Then the once creative young lady became just like everyone else
Up to date with the latest beauty trends;
Just like everyone, it inevitably sugar coats her insecurities aside
And progressively concealing her own uniqueness.

The quitest thing
was the city,
and at night
I'd let it
speak to me.

Music on streets
-cars and laughter-
fitting for someone
who can't sleep.
The city's awake,
So so am I.