I feel stuck as if I were formed from marble,
each intricate detail of my body,
carved and curved for the satisfaction of others,
my lips smoothed over for pearl shine,
my hips chiseled with an hour glass for times content,
a heart guarded by non transparent eyes,
like a cloudy white sky on a sunny day,
become the standards of beauty for them to be fulfilled,
I can not predict weather I'm real or a slab of marble,
who am I to know who I am when I'm stuck trying to be someone else for them?
nothing to me,
except a plain figure of ivory with so much meaning,
and no soul to prove it.
About the Creator
Lilian Wicca
In a world of lovely things we often find ourselves surrounded by endings. If I am to end someday, I'd like to be buried with the words of my thoughts
I'm a 19 year old poet, I love to write about love/death.
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