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When I see a woman, I judge her physically. The heaviness of her bosom, The shapeliness of her buttock, The depth and radiance of her eyes. What equates true beauty? For it is said that it rests In the eye of the beholder. I become aggravated And convoluted when I see A woman that conforms To our societal standards. Yet I am smitten and Begrudge myself instantaneously. My eyes, though, can look beneath All the layers of those fallacies. Yet I still hold to "what you See is what you get." A woman is not a trophy, But we boast as if they are. A pound of flesh, A sternum, a clavicle. All of these are all but parts Of a woman. Also parts of a man. I make myself sick When I can not Remove my eyes from A luscious beauty. Mine own eyes gravitate Towards them like the tide To the moon. I find that I harshly Judge those like myself. I find my self-worth in My appearance and reflection. I have driven myself insane Because I do not conform To our combined societal standards Second place is but inner worth. Sad to say, though I Chide myself for feeling thus. What a wrought contradiction. How I loathe myself for my Feelings. Such shallowness Finds me lonely and broken. |