Why this farce, day after day?

By Ashleigh · Apr 5, 2010 ·
  1. 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

    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.


    Mr. Conscience

    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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