Angst
When I look in the mirror
it's like a whole other game.
I sometimes see potential
a human perhaps.
I see me.
It's for little want I am,
and I look at her and I feel pain.
I want to make it alright,
but to believe a concious at all is a daydreamy sight.
Other times I see a vapour,
non-existent or repugnant beyond belief.
I console myself not to look
and imagine my features else where for relief.
When I look in the mirror
I want people to see the side I'm coming from,
I'm so sad
and I truly believe I'm the runt of the bunch.
But why does everyone else have to think so too?
Can't you love me,
the way I prospect to love you?
What is it about me, why am I born this way?
And worse still how could I be designed inside
so difficult too?
I'm eccentric sure, I like to be too,
I feel right and happy until I catch
a glimpse in a mirror,
a stare from a stranger-
the reflection in their eyes.
How can I be so little, when to me
I am the centre of this repulsive little life?
I am not vain I just know
that this is me and all I ever venture to be will be
of the same consequence.
When all that is dear to me shall go freafully I shall be
the experienced.
How can you hate a soul you have no eyes to see in.
Why condemn when you can listen?
Copyright © Jennifer Ratcliffe | Year Posted 2011
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