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?