This poem is about society’s obsession with beauty and the pressure to stay young and beautiful.

We don’t see our own face, only what the mirror shows it to be
Or what some one else sees
Twisted reflection of our anatomy looking back at us in imperfectly.
What does my face really look like to me?
Who defines what is seen?
Who judges its structural base?
Who decides if it is pretty or pretty ugly?
Who puts me on “the most beautiful list?”
And how do they decide who goes on the list?
Is the shape of my nose or the slant my eyes?
Or maybe I have “those perfect lips”?
Could it be the distance between my eye and my brow?
Or it just might be the way that I pout?
We don’t see our own face, only what the mirror shows it to be
Or what someone else sees
Twisted reflection of our anatomy looking back at us imperfectly.
So how important is my face to me,
When I have to rely on someone’s opinion of me
So I look at magazines and watch Television every day
so I can keep up with what my face should be.
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