Liked by many though I still feel alone,
Surrounded by others but still trecking on my own.
they try to understand my pain but they have different trials,
though no one truly hurts me death begins to beguile.
My worst enemy isn't my freinds nor a relative of any kind,
tis the thing we call our conscious tis the thing I call my mind.
you might look at me and say i'm gorgeous however i cannot agree,
for I see flab and drab and a mishapen face in the mirror that reflects me
I stare at that thing And spot every single flaw,
I think if the things that people might say And wonder what they saw.
I know I need to stop this This doubt and criticism,
However I'm stuck between to points My mind is left in a schism.
"Am I beautiful? Can I? " Are questions I think of much.
Yet it's hard when you constantly have a critic and the critic's your devil of a conscious