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#sundayrepost Mirror, mirror, on the wall, Through you I want to fall, Help me get out of this place, So I don't have to look at my face.
[Bridge] I wake, I get up I serve, I sleep again No one cares how you handle the part in between.
She climbs up on the stool, Looks straight into the mirror. Her eyes are quickly fading, And she almost has no hair. So she climbs back down the stool, Puts it back in its little corner.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall, Through you I want to fall, Help me get out of this place, So I don't have to look at my face.
Too afraid to gain a pound So you just walk away You live your life alone With no one around It's the one thing you can control Was it the stress.
I'm sitting here, Trying to look pretty, and Sitting in a way that makes my legs look Long and smooth as polished wood, And graceful - like a dancers.
Intro Hey, there. My name is Amy. There's nothing special about me, really. I live in a smalltown no one has probably ever heard of.
I'm getting ready for the opuss party, I've got on my white shiny shoes I've dug out my brown chords with braces, now which shirt shall I choose.
I look at myself in the mirror with such hatred, I see imperfection looking back at me, blue tearful eyes that glare back with no emotions shown in them.
Compliments are nice. That doesn't mean I like getting them. I do. But I don't need to get them repeatedly and all the time. On the outside I get all tense and awkward. And I just stand there.
*no stereotyping intended* I just met the man of my dreams Shiny white shoes that make my heart scream Grease parted hair I couldn't help but stare Gold chain That's fashionably tarnished by...
Imperfection, Pervades our every thought. Complexion, Beauty is always sought. Affection, Travels only to the skin. Infection, Damaged looks seen as your sin. Injection, Creates a falsified you.
So I went to visit my friend who's only 4 and she said this, "what's all that pencil on your face?" I was just like "it's called spots." Urgh I hate those things. Any advice on how to get rid of...
She hid behind frosted thick glass, Not wanting to be seen, just wanting to be passed. Hiding away her face, her soul... Unwilling to be hurt, by the boys that are bold.
#youngwritershousehold Picture day, picture day... I hope my hair's looking okay. Line is moving, I'm up next... No one's absent, no pretext.
It's me The day begins and I wake up, I look at myself and hope for good luck. I cover myself with a layer of make-up, Hiding who I am from the papers.
#household Mirror, Mirror, On the floor, I shattered you and what you store. You show me what I don't want to see, I try and I run, I can't be free. I hate what I see staring back, That's not me.
You know you need to do something when your hair is starting to look like Tim Minchin's. In other words, I look like my hair has been chemically straightened. I don't even know how that happened.
#emotion I hate my life, it's awful. I've got no friends and I'm sorrowful. I've got natural blonde curly hair, That once trailed down to the chair. Had it cut one day, Bellow my shoulders I say.
I examined myself in the mirror. I looked at my Strawberry Blonde curls that fell halfway down my back. It had natural blonde highlights in it. My hair was frizzy, as always.
How did this happen. It must have been a trap.
Hidden away, behind my make-up, behind my smile. You think I'm perfect, you tell me all the time. There is nothing perfect about the person I see. A small, fragile girl, hiding.
#household Click. There goes the camera. Flash. It goes again. Shutters close real briefly, To capture this moment of time. Click. Another photo. Flash. That lights the room.
I was speechless. Absolutely speechless at the picture that stood before me on my computer screen. I was in my grass dress, looking off into the sky. My arms were gracefully lifted up towards the sun.