You change the way you dress as gratification of a common appearance. You keep those nails spiffy clean, hiding the dirt of an unwanted scene. Nothing less than perfection is ever accepted. Deep inside the bruises are buried, bruises that are packaged and dying to be shipped away. They’re beneath a surface almost too amazing to touch and if released manipulated views will end. You’re lost in your own skin, insecure about what lies within, covered by the mascara and blush, afraid to show the burning cuts. You look like what you’ve been through and you can’t even tell. Perfection is what you hope for but in reality, nothing more than greatness can ever be achieved.
April 10, 2011 | 11:26 PM |