From a circle with “dieting” in the centre – I was 24…. and this came from the bubbles that were circled around it.
Not every woman has beauty in her house,
In soft December, slim Monicamas.
American beauties, tall and trim,
but holding the torch of unnatural surroundings and shapes.
Strict hellish diets, with their
meagre caloric consumption.
Blown out of proportion, by the media of the day.
Torch-diets of the skinny era,
malnutrition’s dark shadowed blaze.
Dark shadows of disorders,
giving off influences, darkness,
upon the health of children.
Give me a torch!
Let me guide myself to the shadow,
forked torch of the unnatural.
Down the darker and darker stairs,
where shadows are darkened on shadows.
Down the emotional way, just now,
in food-rich December.
To the sightless realm where
depression is married to depression
and media itself emits
idol sights, as a bridge to beauty.
A visible influence enfolded in
the deeper shadows
of the arms of death, as it
ravishes the woman once again
and pierces her esteem with
passion of the utter shadow
among the splendor of skinny models,
shedding fathomless shadows on the bridge.
Give me a diet on a plate,
three small meals,
for I cross the bridge, and shall be
influenced by the deadly disorder,
born from dieting and false
desires this side of the bridge.
Lucky for me I burned that bridge before it took me down! But it wasn’t an easy journey. Who could not see from my writing what I was going through? Doesn’t matter anymore, but how many out there are writing poems like this without a hand reaching out and pulling them back from crossing that bridge?