Loved ones tell stories about me to me,
But I already know what it's like to die,
And to pluck at my ghost's sad
I wrote an apology on the mirror,
And one forget-me-not to yours truly.
Another ideal sculpted frame
We all hate to look,
We all love to picture.
Alone we seek shadows to hide in,
As statues mark
I know nothing of delicacy blossoming beneath flesh
Tickle my fancy with visions of "Perfection"
On infinite wings I
fly from affection.
Syllables, images, deny self-worth;
The pain of convention.
There's a desire to validate this
There's a need to eradicate this paradigm.