DETROTSID

Distorted is his image.

A shameful glance in the mirror,

Hoping his eyes could simply rip them away.

Distorted is his view,

Of the shapely vessel he possesses;

How a moment so slight could shift his every day—

Distortion, all his eyes dare to see,

And he weeps at the sight

Of an external mess

Distorted in a dress,

His sense of self ever repressed,

What a hideous vessel to possess.

Driven to hell

His own home wherein he will lie

Still in an everlasting sleep;

Bearing wounds soul deep

From a parent so unwise,

Who can barely bear to look their child in his eyes.

Distorted is his image

Its beauty, long lost.

Hopeful eyes turned grey

And society’s dismay

To see him strut in a dress.

Forever distorted, is the vessel which he must possess.