Box of Oppression

I am built on a plaintive mountain of emptiness 

With the broken bones of those who jumped before me 

Their reflections of pain can be seen in my eyes 

Though you criticize this box I was built inside 

Scolding the pain that you created 

 sorry I’m not worth gold

Or as bright as spitting fire 

 nothing but a sexist magazine of your desires  

Trapped under your control 

 confined to these chains of your past

forced to fit your mold

For I am no longer a person 

I am a photo of plain beauty

followed by spirals of jealousy 

That laces the oppression 

Decorated with the graves of buttercups 

That is captured inside a sheen cover 

As we still reside in the red lips of society's magazine

Though my magazine has become a chapel of your stares 

That I pray to never sin