My reflection gives me a disappointed glance
As I stare back at my appearance.
I take a peek inside my head
And see false images of today’s hybrid.
“What a terrible age to live in” I think to myself
As my shapely shadow contours my bookshelf
Everything seems to revolve around looks
While the modern world is blind to the value of books.
I slump to the floor against the wall.
All of the models look like a doll.
A manipulated, overrated reflection of perfection.
Does the world expect me to imitate society’s infection?