Magazines

Flipping and fleeting, the photos rush by

Creating memories of things which I never had

Nor will I ever hold.

Words on this page with no relevance to me

And yet with value bestowed.

The weight of these filled, flimsy pages

Crushes my palms and warps my knuckles

But I do not care- I never will.

These pieces of paper are my sanctuary;

These thoughts are not my own

But they inspire me, and I love them for that.

The gloss of the page is blinding

And the bolded print shines on the binding,

While I am very much minding.

With pages too big for mortal hands

I realize I have become something new, something better:

Someone more ignited by

A true and secret and unforgiving passion:

I have become another (willing) victim of beauty,

An addict of the glossies.