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cyeow t1_iugqddu wrote

[Poem]

This isn't right.
This face looking back at me
Has too many lines
Tiny webs sprouting from corners of
Tired eyes

I pinch my cheeks
Did they always droop this way?
The skin below feels thin, dry;
Like rice paper

This face, all grey hair and spotted skin -
That isn't me
Where is the girl who dreamt
Of being an actress, a poet, a writer
Of a life singing and dancing
Of loving and being loved
Where is her long black hair and skin supple as dew?

The mirror does not show her
But I know she exists
For I feel her heart
Beating in my chest
This is why I don't trust mirrors
For mirrors always lie

8

BlueOrangeMorality t1_iuh0ktt wrote

I like this. Well done.

It puts me in mind of a bit from a story I read years ago:

"A great artist—a master—and that is what Auguste Rodin was—can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is . . . and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be . . . and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart . . . no matter what the merciless hours have done to her." ~Stranger In A Strange Land, Robert Heinlein

Edit: The sculpture in question is The Old Courtesan.

2

cyeow t1_iuh743z wrote

Thank you for your compliment and for sharing that wonderful quote. Heinlein states eloquently the idea I was hoping to grasp.

2

BlueOrangeMorality t1_iuinogc wrote

When your poem puts the reader in the same state of mind as the works of master sculptors and award-winning authors, I'd say you grasped it very well. Your poem was excellently done.

1

lastone654 t1_iuh4u8y wrote

[Poem]

Mirror mirror,

On the wall,

Mirror mirror,

I will stall

Party party,

It must wait,

Party party,

I'll be late,

A home a home,

Where I'll stay,

A home a home,

Where's the way,

5

Negative_Flatworm_28 t1_iugqegb wrote

As I walked up to the mirror I looked longingly into it noticed it again short but definitely there my watch I was the wrong one I was wearing the gold one she got me but my reflection or I guess I should say my “reflection “ was wearing the black one. As I look to check the watch on my wrist I se his arm move as well seamless I quickly see him switching his briefly as if he was trying to hide it in the peripherals. Was it indecision or coincidence I had noticed it before one or two things slightly off the black ring instead of the gold one the red tie not the purple one. He left the the pain of smooth glass. Leaving it empty and I started to realize I couldn’t tell who the reflection was was my world seemed pail compared with his like I’m a Phantom within the glass I thought back on my life and realized all I remember is this standing in-front of this glass stick still my outfit different then before but somehow wrong but who is right. He appears again and i skew my tie while he’s not looking I’ve decided to always be slightly off resigning myself to always making him correct one thing.

4

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1

Mitheau t1_iuk698w wrote

[poem]

The mirror always lies, I've seen its face before, The one I lock away, deep beneath my floor.

The mirror beckons me, to stare into it's eyes, To see the dark regret, The pain I can't disguise.

The mirror lies again, and claims it is to late, to start again anew, But I won't take the bait.

1