I wish not to be like her,
the picture-perfect frame,
a high-tempered glass simply covering its burned photo edges on the inside.
I wish not to be like her,
the forced heavy strokes of brush,
to be without consent, a masterpiece of an art that was as fragile as a porcelain.
I wish not to be like her,
to be raised like her,
to be raised by her.
I wish against being her.
She who is so intentionally flawed.
She who is so imperfectly perfect.
What she calls an act of defense is what i call an act of hypocrisy in an attempt to cover her desperate lies, as her rich poise and sophisticated bearing are nothing but her inner self's desperate cry for help.
YOU ARE READING
the Journey
PoetryQuoting the phases of persona's childhood; composed over the years in her distressed journey of emotions- compiled in this book of short poems. Welcome to 'the Journey'.
