Not about how I look
It’s about how I feel
Don’t aspire to model
Unreal
Abs of steel
Body images forged
In a foundry of fake
Ego-worshipping
Vanities
We venerate,
Escalate
Above normalcy
Mortals’
Informal appearance
To levels demanding
Religious adherence
To some sort of devil’s
Purse-nality cult
Poster-boyish pop stars
Idol minds
We exult
In,
Pretending
This kid’s an adult
Surely only more harm
Than success
Can result
When alarms aren’t raised
On the pageantry stage
Or the image displayed
Still outweighs
The health craze
Gets away with its rape
As if papists appraised
By the standards we set
For what flesh
Really craves
And the souls it enslaves
When the imp
Misbehaves
Just a phase
They say,
Verily,
Soon it shall pass
Blame society’s
Virally-spreading
Impact
With its constant
News-cycle’s
Truth-vanishing
Act
Just reflecting what we
Wish to see
Staring back
In the glass
At us
Perfectly snaptured
As dysmorphic actors’
Dystopian future
Buy-products
Enraptured
Like Thatcherites’
Appetites
Herd-thinning pasture
Refracting attractive
Distractions
Much faster
Than paces of
Heart-racing
Patients
Can gasp for
To ask for
A semblance of
Sex-figured
Sums
At the least
But alas becomes
Only
This beautiful beast
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Michael Brandon Marchese and writers in Poets and other communities.
Mama’s Boy
I’ve been a fiancé for four years and three months. We’ve been together for six and a half years total, and we have a two-month-old son together. I can’t help but think that we’ll never get married. We haven’t even decided on a wedding date. When I bring it up, he tries to escape the room as if he’s late for something more important.
By Real Poetic4 days ago in Chapters
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