at twenty-five that I
do my eyebrows
and look for the right angles in the mirror
-- not that I didn't
know them very well already
by fifteen --
it is now that
I
remember of things that
seem like distant lives I have lived
only to stare in wonder
of my little or none
belief in my own self
I once believed
and a minute after
dropped the hope
when will it be
the definitive time
to gain it back?
maybe it is only the twenties --
the age where adulthood
hits you in the back of the head
and watches you suffer as a
despicable
delusional
and undefined lonely lost soul
hanging desperately
by any given gutter --
maybe it is just the stigma
I carry
by --
oh well --
being me
and even in a wrack of a poem
such as this
at twenty five
I believe
that the word behind I
and behind eyes alone
is not the one to blame for my
characteristic lack of segments --
after all
it is only now
at twenty five that I
learned
to pluck the eyebrows
while I wipe the side of my cheeks
pretentiously
as I ask myself
what is the true meaning
of such act
as this
-- the mechanical result of this
useless and poorly developed
concept.
