I hear them speaking in hushed whispers about my pulchritude.
To be the object of your ardent eyes is not my intention.
Can you really see who I am, or does my exterior preoccupy your thoughts.
It is as equally sad, as the propensity to not recognise the obvious beauty within.
Why are you so blindly unaware of the underlying reality that the atrophy beneath the surface is real?
Can i be more than an impression, left to the vices of my critics whom are quick to arbitrate my appearance.
They leave my soul out of the formula.
In that second, you have already decided my importance.
How is it fare that my face is your evaluation of my worth.
Leave me be antagonistic for such vanities, as this is the elixir that quenches my soul.
For I see the beauty in everything but myself.
(I dedicate this to Clay Barbuto, an angel taken to soon)