Living Art

My face is my canvas, my body a mold

Cling savagely to what can be controlled.

Sought idealism in the reflection

Taught by the tabloids what was perfection.

Through knives and needles and all that is painted

Now sculpted, she’s no longer tainted.

Was it the mean boys who liked to slice and poke fun?

Or jealousy of those who ran in the sun?

Or are the glossy pages what’s really to blame

Promising beauty and end to her shame?

“What she’s done to herself- it isn’t that smart,”

She can’t feel her face but she still feels remarks.

Will one day satisfaction fill up her heart?

Or will she never be through with her living art?