A quick little poem about how the face we portray to the world is oftentimes a mask. Nobody can live up to the expectations of the mob, and the things we do to ourselves in trying are often painful, if not downright dangerous.
Perfect hair and pouty lips
(Wigs, injections, balms and sips)
Narrow waistlines, busty chests
(Corsets with implanted breasts)
Calves and ankles, perfect, turned
(Stockings, heels, and toes that burn)
A goddess walking. "How?", they ask.
(No one knows her sans the masks.)
