The Looking Glass, The Beautiful Soul

The looking glass has a vile tongue.
It speaks nought truth, but whispers fibs.
The image; distorted, warped and wrung,
yet we all eat up lies she spits.

She makes us want to change our out,
to make all others want who we are.
But who we are has changed to what;
and our shells are but cracked and bare.

We smile at what she makes us see:
prompts us to hide under plastic sheets.
"What I look describes me" think we,
at that she laughs and mocks with glee.

I won't succumb dear looking glass!
Hear the weeping whispers in my heart:
What you see isn't me, alas!
My beautiful soul is veiled under that.

My beautiful soul has much to express;
She's turned and tumbled, worn quite thin:
and tired of hiding behind this mesh,
The wall that traps the love within ,my skin.

The ME, outside, is deaf to her.
She won't gain me money, nor love, in the least
the she, inside, starts to stir;
And wants a showcase against the beast.

The looking glass would never want any to see;
The light's, shelled up, and tied right down.
For the light wants nought the lies she has;
But this light turns up any frown.

And so, looking glass, quake with fear
You're stripped of the power over us.
your windy whispers, I'm, deaf to hear
For the light within became without,
And the false dermis could mute her not.
Her her? Yelling? Bold, clear.
"Where is your looking glass, world? My beautiful soul is here."