Mirrors, mirrors
everywhere
More than ever I can’t
help but stair,
In my room, or over
there,
a thousand mirrors
here and there,
Years ago I didn't
care,
But growing seems to
be unfair,
That even a single
imperfect hair,
Will with me its
torments share,
Fiddle, and fondle
until you swear,
For imperfections you
so fear,
That which cannot be
fixed, disappear!
Or hidden behind the
mask you wear,
Hair that runs down
like a stream,
Not knowing that its
but a dream.
Making beauty but a lie,
Letting its true form
wither and die.
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