(In the structure of The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe)

Here lie my bleak reflection, which had caught a great infection.
Suddenly My Heart took quiver at its reflection in the mirror.
“Maybe you’re worthless” - said she - whose fluttering began the question in me:
     Why cannot I just be, be myself without oppressor?
     Who is this glorified manufactor?
     This alien - see I - in the mirror.


“My Heart - you harass,” - said I - whose temperance had gone awry.
“Who created you an archetype, you, all hideous and vile agitator?”
“‘Twas not meant to agitate, rather just to subjugate.
     Subjugate you will be, or vein disapproval your reciprocator.”
     Confounding thoughts within my reflector.
     This alien - see I - in the mirror.


This diverse yet homogenous being, I so surely set on seeing.
More homogeneous than diverse, this weak and lonely exhumator.
Given to conformity I would lose mine own identity.
     She who had me flouncing and wanting of some protector,
     For One so shy and doubtful; such a lovely frock and pinafore.
     This pretense - see I - in the mirror.


In this grand masquerade, I shall pull off this false charade.
But how long will this facade be received by my perceptor?
As long I feign authenticity is as long they receive my plasticity.
     This will I do abiding only to gain in your favor.
     Who would conceive me being pretender?
     This pretence - see I - in the mirror.


Tho’ shall I take off this mask, and risk to become outcast?
Why is it I whose priorities be the tolerator?
I do not deserve this vain doubt, for surely I would be put out.
     Ugh, what obscene frustration I abhor.
     "Sweet Heart, my differences you were not to be the violator."
     This variation - see I - in the mirror.


My idiosyncrasy makes me proud, but surely I shall not speak this aloud.
All this controversy running through my mind soon will be my captor.
Diversity is what some might say is keeping the world at bay.
     Others understand a different way, but who made them oppressor?
     Each side has some sort of regular.
     This variation - see I - in the mirror.


Conflicting thoughts within my head, ‘tis almost as if I wished myself dead.
“Oh revolting Heart of mine, you contrive such lies and horror.
With this writhing pain inside me, will I let this torment guide me?”
     No, for if I do it will only become the consumer. 
     Homogeny and diversity are as some poisonous predator.
     This affliction - see I - in the mirror.