Mirrors don't lie about frank and ernest portrayal...

Especially when giving cheeky badass

blemished physiognomic reflection

tricking me seeing displeasing likeness

Matthew Scott Harris, a grown lad brandishing

his treasured invisible cutlass

poised to strike, (where spiderlines

instantaneously provoked, webbed,

and frankly zapped shattering experience),

whereby yours truly

rendered unconscious to any pass

hubble gratefully dead singed hair zombie

straight away befriending image with him

aforementioned christened human biomass,

hence explains personal objection (mine)

devoid of any sass

sneaking a peek at (regarding employing

cute antiquated, quaint word) looking glass.

Feeble effort, butta lemme attempt to apprise

ye dear reader, how gasping

at me selfsame visual simulation spurs cries

and whispers with shrieks of horror

inexplicable nauseating revulsion jars myopic eyes

espying even willow the wisp gallivanting guise

think mine glassy doppelganger blithely

traipsing, tooling tiptoeing no lies

hands down acquiring masquerade ball door prize

if nothing else... try getting a fleeting rise

of humoresque judicious metaphorical

sucker puncheon the gut against self I satirize

February twenty third perhaps lame effort

to affect seeming witty and wise.

Mailer daemons rule cerebral roost,

whereby gimcrackery invectives loosed,

cuz all during growing up years bullies did boost

inferiority complex hatching adult

egg go self steam goosed

abysmal confidence building accomplishment

ye accurately deduced

charnel, (bilabial) frictional,

infernal... struggle moost

arduous (think Atlas, Sisyphus, plus

ten subsequent Greek mythological Titans) juiced

with eternal divinity upon

whose figurative shoulder humanity papoosed.