Sorry I am not your perfect model walking down the street
wind tossing my hair slightly over to the side with
paparazzi snapping photos of me the entire time screaming
¨Perfect! Perfect! One more,¨ with their eyes caressing my
toned muscular physique up and down. I cannot even play the part of
half-witted pretty boy while dressed up in an expensive tuxedo,
nor bathing suit while dripping wet.
I am not even allowed to their exclusive meetings where
they sit around a table of mirrors talking about how to become
even more of a masterpiece of walking beauty. I broke the mirrors
as soon as I slammed the door behind me. And forever they have held
that grudge against me. ¨Do not take his picture!¨ a yell from
the sky would announce, ¨He is not worthy.¨
I do not know if I am truly upset when the rain pours on me
and I sit there like a sad wet homeless dog wallowing in my
own self-pity. My bony limbs jutting out like a bare tree, stripped
of its colorful autumn leaves. I am barren, as the models parade
one by one behind each other as to not blind the public with
a horizontal row of allurement.
Oh the shame I bring myself with the inability to walk like an Adonis,
and my only quality of an intelligent conversation.
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