The Perfect People

They laugh, they stare from full-page ads with star-
Filled smiles, preserved in whimsy, blemish-free:
Platonic life. You've seen them; you know them: They are
But want not, wish not: equally were we
Created, knowing hubris, textured flaws,
Not layers of cosmetics and conceit.
The prize of sweat (and tears) must give us pause.
Yet every penetrating glance reminds
Us that we're not the wholes we wish to be.
Weep for me, crayon switchblade edge that blinds
The perfect poster eyes that blindly see.

I hate I hate I hate myself: it's true,
I want to be a Perfect Person, too.

© Douglas Allchin