by Nick Gisburne
Do better. You are so much more than this,
Pretentious, pouting, clamouring for clicks.
You think some sweet pretence to blow a kiss
Is precious? These are dreams, illusions. Tricks.
You’re sensual, seductive, sure. So what?
A hundred thousand more could take your place.
In twenty years... attractive? Maybe not.
You’ll fade, like all the others with your face.
Take every moment, every chance you can.
I’m not the one to punish you for that,
But something will: tomorrow. Make a plan,
Or tumble from the seat in which you’re sat.
I think you’re more. I see it in your eyes.
Reach out. Reach in. Do better. Take the prize.
