The mirror tells of imperfections, and broken glass,
Her heart harrows of an unspoken past,
Remembrance of whatever negativity was spoken last.

Her eyes tear and vision fades at its description,
She suffers from keen eyes, keen senses,
She believing its false pretenses.

Point, paint a picture, of perfection,
Let her eyes be guided by the mirror’s direction,
Intent, begin to mark down, corrections.

Her perception her perception,
Her conception her conception,
Fabricate a falsehood, preach to a deaf choir,
Pry her eyes open, feed her nonsense,
This is right, you are wrong,
She falters at the mirror, trying too long to stay strong,
Cut her hair, shave her head, her hair’s gone,
Boys, ear piercing compliments over the phone,
Let them fall before her.

Signs of struggle, signs if restraint,
She expresses through humdrum poetry and splattered paint.

The lively machinations of a lifeless mirror,
She supplies the power to its opinion,
It works carefully and in her life edicts dominion,
She glares at the broken glass to recreate,
She glares and glares while glaring at her mistakes,
Nose too big, eyes too far apart,
Distasteful tastes lie on the pallet it tastes tart,
She continues to sprinkle and splatter paint, it’s hate art,
Remnant of a late heart,
Of shattered opinions from the past that taste sharp,
She speaks with a bloody tongue,
The beliefs beat her brain like a drum,
A rhythm she cannot understand, undone.

No second represents time, progress,
The seconds second the opinion of the mirror’s conquest,
With better dress, with better dress, the agony of distress,
A finished canvas shows the nos…the nos.


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