A CROWN OF MALADIES

I hate how my hands feel,

Roughened by the toil of the day.

I hate the shape of my arms,

Moulded shapeless by the weight of the world.

I hate the sound of my voice,

Nothing but a coarse brooding I hear.

I hate the way I speak,

Unmindful of the conversations. fixated on myself.

I hate these tired eyes of mine,

Sunken and wallowed in insomnia.

My lips have turned gloomy and dark,

My breath smells like ash.

I hate what I am to myself,

I hate the person I see before me.

I wish this mirror would break apart,

Solace in petty filters I find, in illusions of another me.

So caught up are we in images,

An image sparkling clean, without blemish.

An ideal, a muse, perfection we’d seek;

Unwilling to accept the misgivings of thee.

We are a generation beside ourselves,

Hating the realities, coasting amid delusions of grandeur.

The perfect charm, the perfect smile.

In search of futile perfections,

Seldom have we looked for our own.

Lost in such blasphemy of mankind,

Wanders our headless souls.

Preach to the choir my friend!

We are all one among them.

Hating the things we have and hold true,

Empowered by these false realities.

False idols, false muses, false Gods;

In a river of fallacies we bathe generously.

A generation, one in love with an illusion of oneself,

As our identities burn and rot in the hell of expectations of the insignificant.

Ugliness is a disease that creeps,

Like the weeds that feed on untouched crops.

Hold that thought for a moment,

As I seek for a little more of beauty in somebody other than me.