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Poem

With a cosmopolitan tabloid draped upon her lap,
A girls sits at her vanity wearing an underdress unstrapped.

The woman on the page portrays perfection with a pleasing smile,
Upon her curvy contoured shape she draped in an haute couture new style.

Staring at the pulchritudinous picture which whispers what she must,
See in the mirror to reflect the woman with the hair a barrette has trussed. 

Curly locks spring from the girl's head and bounce as her head lifts,
To gaze upon the looking glass and compare her phenotypical gifts. 

Her hands cradle her chalky cheekbones while her puckered lips begin to pout,
As she sees a girl and not the woman who radiates divinity, without a doubt. 

Perchance one day we'll look in mirrors and see what is really there,
Instead of seeing what ought to be, unblemished by the venom of Vanity Fair.

Perchance one day women can look at reflections without having to think,
Of pounding cakes of makeup paint to make them better-looking before the sink.

Perhaps one day men can look at reflections without having to think,
Of six-packs abs that look like metal slabs and exploded pecs that never shrink.

Perchance one day the hypnotic television will portray people who are real,
Instead of pictures of soulless statues who stand intent on affecting how we feel. 

Beauty is not in the eye of the beholder when what we hold is social value,
Which we're told through modes of media to be more like them and less like you.

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