An insecure silhouette
You are a world, full of mystic lures
It beckons the young at heart
Yet without the benefit of doubt, you frail it
A dying whisper of harp string is the only significant sound left
As it slowly dies down like an echo of melody in yearning
Blemishes cover your crust embodied cuticle
As they transform into freckles forming a translucent scar
Much as you marvel to your ungainly fowl discourse of pleasure diluted satisfaction
Deforestation of your being is a hobby you quite enjoy
Afforesting superficial images that aren’t your realities
Brought a relevancy that bored you even more
You beguile your sad fancy into smiling
Yet, no syllable will truly comply nor express the disfigured feeling of un-contentment
That lingers in an unstable rhythmic pattern of breathing
Your world is made of plastic
And fabrics of cheap labor
You seemingly force your spherical body in a society of decrepit self-expression
As a form of melancholy
Peeping through blind folds
Only to be met by a frail fickle figure at stand
I guess your conscious dignity
Will forever remain a dismal shade of unmeasurable art articulated
Your insecure silhouette
Remains frail (yes)
A blueprint
The icing to the cake
And the cherry on top
Fun fact
Your silhouette has lost its faze
YOU ARE READING
A shadow of silhouettes
PoetryAs humans we paint a fabricated picture of who we are and what we stand for. We are caught in pits of hells as we try to impress the status quo of a today society's...
