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.
