The Glass

They pose ideals of perfectionism,
Which quickly became my critcism

They preach of beauty of this and not yours,
Yet this is what I believed as I grew

Her beauty: a dream
Her figure: extreme
Her skin was sublime
But me? I had none,
it was such a crime

I study the glass and utterly despise,
"Why can't I be her?" I say with tearful eyes

Eight years of struggle and I cannot believe,
A tumultuous time it was indeed

I withered away in turn for beauty,
I should have embraced myself though, truly

The love for thyself is a love you need,
So take care of yourself, exude happiness, and you will be freed

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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