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Wake Up, Makeup
January 20, 2017
You can see wrinkles in the same place where
my mascara runs. Below the pair of orbital cavitities and on my skin lie wrinkles that show how tireless
I am. To become something I am not, I am striving.
A mask I wear everyday stretches
to hide my insecurties fueled by society and its
expectations and judgements. The arms
of cruel criticism reach out to beat me down, forcing me to work towards
something I cannot achieve: perfection.
© Danielle R., Auburn, NY
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This poem is a Golden Shovel poem. I used the line "Where tireless striving stretches its arms towrds perfection from the poem "Gitanjali 35," by Rabindranath Tagore.