A voice sits on your shoulder and recites:

“This is not your life, but don’t you wish it were?”

You throw your phone down and know the voice is right

Then you ask, “why can’t I be like her?”

A wardrobe with its high price tag

Her legs so spidery long

An obvious Chanel hand bag

And her first class trip to Hong Kong

You look at yourself

And all that you see

Is a mediocre version

Of what you’re told to be.

But then another voice speaks

It is quiet against the first voice

It is soft spoken; it is meek

Nevertheless, it says, “you have a choice,

You can recognize that you’ve been mislead

Everything you see on this screen

Is a museum that’s been curated 

Ever so pristine

Not an outfit from past seasons

Nor a hair out of place

Not a voice of truth nor reason

Never revealing a life of disgrace.”

The voice becomes louder

And you begin to understand 

That these lives of polished silver

Only tarnish in the end.