You tell me you're this, and your really not
Your spoken words are no longer hot
Straight hair, blue eyes,
Constant struggle to be who you are not
Why be a constant mystery
When that is all history?
High heals, red lips, shades on and chapstick
Well that's all a simile-
Ever think of being you, instead of being me?
I'm paper made from the pictures,
Models...all of this is psychology
I never understood why you cannot see
I never said being a toothpick was beautiful
But you switched up my words,
And now you're shedding pounds from your cuticle
Don't you know we're oppressed
Forced to flaunt their bodies and chest?
You're a mystery?
Well, so am I
Check pages two, six, and five-
I'm just the pages of a magazine.
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This Poems Story
Our society defines beauty in superficial ways, as if we need to fit a certain image or walk a certain way. I sometimes wish people would be comfortable in their own shells. This poem mostly speaks about the pressure to be "perfect." This is my first publication, and I'm honored to have been selected. I'm seventeen years old. For me, writing is: a release; a place to go when I'm not welcome anywhere else; an exit from the life for which I never signed up...a place where I'm a puppet trying to be real like Pinocchio. For now, I play an "average" girl.