It creeps in through the glass,
distorting my vision of what is and is yet to come.
The hand of dissatisfaction pressing
ever so firmly against my chest,
conforming my words into societal acceptance.
Chains around my wrists,
capturing my humanity.
A painted mask of happiness
to conceal the expression of life
To whom are we true?
To them?
To us?
Is the sole purpose to commemorate the idea of perfection and acceptance?
We are merely figures within a globe of snow;
Activated at discretion.