Low Selfie Esteem[Confessional Poetry]

in #poetry8 years ago

  

Trying to flirt over Snapchat

has severely damaged me.

Every photo a painfully self 

conscious ordeal.

The other night I spent

10 minutes in the bathroom

trying to decide

how much lip to bite.

Too fleshy, too toothy,

weird expression, blinked.

Contrive the casual, 

canned candid. Don't think

that lock of hair tossed 

idly on my forehead was

an accident.

But I'm through with

putting production quality

into Snapchat. Today I fired

the lighting crew.

Now I just send dark poetry

to girls on tinder. 

Death to pixel prince charming,

I have no time to portray the 

perfect.

Gawk in awe at my gangling frame

all gory and raw. No pretense, 

I tended to manage perceptions but

I am no longer the shepherd of your

opinion of me.

My rough edges are the open pieces

of a jigsaw puzzle. 

I was cut, we were all cut.

We bleed from our edges and 

we are real at our edges. If

there is anything real in you,

let it shine or let it suck, whether

perfect or putrid, let your soul

spill over and someone will like the

taste of you. The world is thirsty

for soul, will you drop the dam between

your heart and your mouth? Flood me, I

am withered and long to swim in you,

the river.

     I have low esteem for my selfie 

because it is so far from myself. The

irony is that they only call it a filter

if you look like a dog. It's a filter the

moment you are anything but what you are.

Hello Steemit! My name is Jonathan Turnick

I am a writer and poet based in the Pacific Northwest of the United States

This is the place to access all of my work, I post my latest and greatest here first! I love sharing with the vibrant community here!

Here is a picture so you can put a face to the name, don't judge my highly contrived selfie too much!

I made this handy guide to my work for you! Here are my most popular projects and posts!


The Memoirs Project:

Memoirs: The furniture store or it's not hard to assume your life away

Memoirs: Moving to Spokane or When every day is a Season Finale

Memoirs: Losing all my money was worth every penny

Memoirs: Two Fake British Girls and a Real Russian, No ice...

Memoirs: How Molly changed my life

Memoirs: Red Rose in a Porcelain Vase


My best poetry

Butcher Block Block

Across the pale horizon

Whispered in Heartbeats

Golden Wings: An angel and her demons


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