I’m afraid
This isn’t me
Or perhaps
Some sudden reflection
Of what fear can build
Through chaos
Knowing perfection
Doesn’t exist,

As appearances
Speak their truths
When our souls
Remain too silent
Like these agonies
Told by signals
On new clothes
And shortened hair –

That strange image
Staring back
While we gasp
Before wet mirrors
Within bathrooms
Steamed from showers
So damn hot
We hope they kill,

Feeling off
But looking right
If ignoring those
Who tell us
Every subtle change
Has meaning
More important
Than perceived.

This whole image
Just seems wrong
Though appropriate
Since agreeing
With old demons
Judging shadows
Casting figments
For real men

Among masses
Most will gauge
Still believing
First impressions
Yet neglecting
Better pictures
Told with words
All actions tell.

There is safety
Standing out
Watching fashion
Hide afflictions
Every mental wound
Has festered
Over years
Spent insecure,

Seeing small flaws
Become big
Letting flesh
Fixate regardless
Cutting strands
Off smiling faces
Only proving
Style screams.

• J. Pigno