Life Under a Metaphorical Magnifying Glass

I wake up every day, face pressed against the glass. I make my morning plea:
“Please stop making them look at me!”
But is anyone really even looking?
Because all I see is warped silhouettes.
Like a big fish—in a small enclosure—swimming circles. It puts me on—display—for all the world. Eyes always watching. They stand there always as they: whisper, titter, talk.
Are those hushed exchanges about me? Are they laughing at me? Are they talking about me when I turn my back, pointing out my flaws, the ones they think I can’t see?
All I can do is lay there—defeated—on the ground.
Permanently stuck there, where the glass has pinned me—down.
I flounder, beating my knuckles against the glass. I scream wordlessly:
“Please stop looking at me!”
But is anyone really even looking?
Because all I see are distorted shapes.
Like a lion, caged—forever vocalizing protesting roars—from within a zoo. It leaves me—exposed—for all the world.  Eyes always watching. They stand there always watching, as they: point, mock, ridicule.
Are they singling me out? Are they making fun of me? Are they pointing out my flaws, the ones they think I can’t see?
All I can do is lay there—defeated—on the ground.
Permanently stuck there, where the glass has pinned me—down.
I make a plan, stock up for my war against the glass. I tell it:
“Let them look.”
And I’m not the only one.
Because this intorsion is a shared experience.
Like parrots—repeating meaningless phrases—stuck in a wire cages. It leaves us open to—pedantry—for all to see. Eyes aren’t always watching. They stand there just like me as they: whisper, titter, talk, and more.
They worry those hushed exchanges are about them. They wonder if that laughter was aimed at them, the same as me. They hope people don’t talk about them when they turn their backs, about those things they thought no one could see.
All they can do is lay there—defeated—on the ground.
Permanently stuck there, where the glass has pinned them—down.
I know this feeling of perpetual paranoia—it’s self-imposed. So then, I ask myself, I make my evening plea:
“Please, stop worrying, they aren’t even looking at me.”






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SpeakerofWolvesThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. said...
Aug. 27 at 8:25 pm
@berrysmores Amazing poem! I can really feel the desperation and the sadness that came from it. Keep up the amazing work!
 
berrysmoresThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Aug. 27 at 8:33 pm
I'm glad to hear you could feel the emotion behind it, and liked it, thank you!
 
LynniThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. said...
Aug. 27 at 4:42 pm
This poem is amazing! I feel the same a lot of the time. I really enjoyed it!
 
berrysmoresThis teenager is a 'regular' and has contributed a lot of work, comments and/or forum posts, and has received many votes and high ratings over a long period of time. This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Aug. 27 at 8:32 pm
Thank you for the kind comment, I'm glad you liked it!
 
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