I don't usually write poetry, but my course insists I try. I've actually become quite fond of free verse, and I like simplicity too.
Lipstick cannot still
The quivering chin,
Nor erase disdain
From the reflection’s eyes.
Lipstick cannot slim
The face, tear back the flesh
And makeup someone new.
Lipstick merely mimics beauty;
Preaching pride from empty shells.
And if this one doesn’t fool them,
I’ll wear another shade.
He’d wear a brown tailored suit
And bowler hat, the kind you’d
Find in thrift stores.
A bristly moustache would rest upon
His lip, and his eyes would be watery grey.
He’d sit in cafes to read the telegraph,
Sipping tea from a china cup.
He’d occupy the tiniest space in my brain,
Cross-legged on my cerebral cortex.
The rap of his cane would echo in my skull,
As he tsked at my terrible choices.
He’d scoff at every utterance of my name,
And roll his eyes at the very thought of me.
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