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.