Portrait of Me

When I see pictures of myself I don’t see me, not really
Instead I see a vessel made up of thoughts that try to be.
Those eyes that sparkle in the sun aren’t mirrors,
but instead, they’re stained glass orbs.
The hair that drapes upon that girls shoulders,
I haven’t got a single strand that links to hers.
The rose that glows within her cheeks
is a burning memory hidden under frozen peaks.
A picture can say a thousand words, but not hers.
instead of words I see a voice that laughs not when it rains, but when it pours
What more words are there to say about a girl who’s not me
just a two dimensional face, illusioned to be such a thing.
She holds beauty in such a simple way
I can only wish to bear that one day
Can I touch? Can I feel? Can she possibly be real?
Everything she embodies is an unrealistic ideal
Who is this woman who wears my shoes?
Can’t anyone tell I’m over here, haven’t they any clue?
A painting of a face, brown eyes, brown hair
and a smile that kisses her cheeks with care
If only I knew why she’s taken my place
if only I knew why she’s using my face
maybe then Iā€™d know how to finally be
the woman I see and wish was me


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