Make Up….

If I’ve made this up,
then I’m the Maybelline man,
Cos I’m born with this,
Unlike groupies with fake tans,
I enhance my flows with nips and tucks,
But no stiff upper lip,
Cos I don’t do Botox,
Cosmetic surgery leaving them with synthetic smiles,
Masking all the denial,
Tattoos on their arms to recapture days of acting wild,
But really it could be a facade,
For a once lonely and insecure child of the night,
On the red carpets of their life,
Shimmering flashing lights,
A reality fast for forty days and forty nights,
Fighting with the torment and dystopia inside,
The smiling sad clown,
The tears burning in her eyes,
That blurs the fact,
Of turning white to black,
Or vice-versa,
Wiped away with the hairs of an Asian,
Drying up through the fickle gust,
Like a Caucasian,
When she looks in the mirror,
What eyes does she trust?
The pupils of the world that taught her,
Or the one she sees through the eyes of her daughter?

©Word Of Mouth
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