About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
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Everyday Canvas #934388 added May 11, 2018 at 7:39pm Restrictions: None
Mirror, Mirror, Your Cheating Heart!
Prompt: The mirror never lies. Or does it?
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Yes, it does. Have you ever looked at yourself on curved carnival mirrors in a country fair? Did you see your nose curving every which way and your mouth larger than your forehead? And your hair, where did it go?
Just like anything else, there are mirrors, and then, there are mirrors. There are mirrors that only reflect your outer shape, and there are mirrors inside people’s eyes who truly love you and they reflect your loveliness with a joyous spark.
After all, our humanness is our best reflection, not our outer shape. For this reason, why we covet outer shapes always passes me by.
There are, however, broken people who believe in what they see in their outer shape, and despair. To them, I would like to say, “If you believe what that mirror is telling you is true, break that mirror and see what happens.”
Most of the time, shards of a broken mirror show shattered images multiplied inside them, with as many images as there are mirror pieces, distorting, cutting, and multiplying shapes. That is what brokenness does.
Yet, I bet you won’t break any mirrors. Heaven forbid! Who wants seven years of bad luck? And if you believe in broken mirrors bringing bad luck, I have to surmise that when big bad wolves order their underlings to do away with millions of innocent people, those innocents must have broken a million truckloads of mirrors. But that has never been the case, has it?
And I have digressed again because my mind is like a spent blow poke when it exhales its last breath. And when it inhales again, a different kind of wind brings out different words.
Then since I am so good with digressing, do you know I have a tiny note on my mirror that says, “This mirror may not lie. Just be happy that it is not laughing at you out loud.” So, I end up laughing at the mirror out loud, instead. Just maybe, all mirrors are for laughing at.
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