iblamexyv
"its only over when u say its over"
- Joined
- May 10, 2026
- Posts
- 384
- Reputation
- 282
you stand in front of the mirror again.
not because you expect something different,
not because some miracle has arrived overnight,
but because hope is a stubborn thing,
and even after everything,
it refuses to die completely.
the bathroom light is cruel.
it paints every angle in sharp white,
every asymmetry,
every flaw you memorized years ago.
you tilt your head left,
then right,
studying yourself the way a judge studies evidence,
searching for a verdict that never changes.
online, they call it looksmaxxing.
a collection of routines,
measurements,
guides written by strangers who speak
with the certainty of prophets.
better skin.
better hair.
lower body fat.
better posture.
better clothes.
fix this.
improve that.
optimize everything.
and so you try.
you count calories while your stomach growls
late into the night.
you save pictures of faces you'll never have.
you learn unfamiliar words
for bones hidden beneath skin.
you spend hours comparing yourself
to people who won a genetic lottery
before they could even walk.
every improvement becomes a new starting line.
the clearer your skin gets,
the more you notice your jaw.
the better your jaw looks,
the more you notice your eyes.
the moment your eyes seem acceptable,
you discover ten other things to hate.
the mountain grows taller
every time you climb it.
sometimes you wonder
if perfection was invented
only to keep people running.
you remember being younger.
before mirrors became enemies.
before photographs felt like punishments.
before attraction became mathematics,
before every smile felt like a competition,
before every beautiful person passing by
left another invisible scar.
now every room feels different.
you notice who gets looked at.
who gets approached.
who gets remembered.
you notice how easily some people exist.
how effortlessly they move through life,
collecting moments
you have spent years imagining.
someone laughs at their joke.
someone touches their arm.
someone remembers their name.
simple things.
ordinary things.
things that somehow became extraordinary.
and you tell yourself
it shouldn't matter.
but it does.
because beneath every obsession with beauty
there is usually something smaller,
something quieter.
the desire to be wanted.
the desire to be chosen.
the desire to walk into a room
and not feel invisible.
late at night,
when the world finally grows silent,
you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
your phone glows beside you,
filled with transformations.
before and after.
before and after.
before and after.
and every success story feels strangely painful.
proof that effort matters,
yet somehow never enough.
you wonder how many years
you have sacrificed at the altar of self-improvement.
how many sunsets went unnoticed
because you were studying your reflection.
how many conversations ended early
because insecurity arrived first.
how many memories dissolved
under the weight of comparison.
the room is dark now.
the mirror can no longer see you.
for a moment,
that feels like mercy.
you pull the blanket closer,
listening to distant traffic,
imagining thousands of strangers
living lives you'll never witness.
some are beautiful.
some are average.
some are neither.
yet all of them are moving forward,
carried by time whether they deserve it or not.
and suddenly,
you realize how exhausted you are.
not from dieting.
not from training.
not from grooming,
or routines,
or endless analysis.
but from carrying yourself
like a problem that needs solving.
from treating your reflection
as a battlefield.
from believing that happiness exists
one more improvement away.
the sadness settles over you gently.
not like a storm.
more like snowfall.
quiet.
cold.
inescapable.
you think of every version of yourself
that stood before a mirror
and found disappointment waiting.
the child who never worried about angles.
the teenager who learned comparison.
the person you are now,
still searching for permission
to feel worthy.
and somewhere in the darkness,
a thought appears.
small enough to miss.
fragile enough to break.
maybe the tragedy was never
that you weren't perfect.
maybe the tragedy was spending years
believing perfection was the price of love.
the ceiling remains silent.
the room remains empty.
the ache remains.
but for the first time all night,
you stop imagining a different face.
you close your eyes.
the mirror is gone.
the measurements are gone.
the rankings,
the comparisons,
the endless calculations
gone.
and in the darkness,
you are simply a person.
tired.
lonely.
human.
waiting for sleep to arrive
like a visitor who still remembers your address,
waiting for morning to return,
waiting for the day when your reflection
is no longer something to conquer,
but someone to forgive.
- its my first poetry,i tried tried writing the most of the poetry by my own experience (i cried about 5x times while writing this.) hope u like it lads
not because you expect something different,
not because some miracle has arrived overnight,
but because hope is a stubborn thing,
and even after everything,
it refuses to die completely.
the bathroom light is cruel.
it paints every angle in sharp white,
every asymmetry,
every flaw you memorized years ago.
you tilt your head left,
then right,
studying yourself the way a judge studies evidence,
searching for a verdict that never changes.
online, they call it looksmaxxing.
a collection of routines,
measurements,
guides written by strangers who speak
with the certainty of prophets.
better skin.
better hair.
lower body fat.
better posture.
better clothes.
fix this.
improve that.
optimize everything.
and so you try.
you count calories while your stomach growls
late into the night.
you save pictures of faces you'll never have.
you learn unfamiliar words
for bones hidden beneath skin.
you spend hours comparing yourself
to people who won a genetic lottery
before they could even walk.
every improvement becomes a new starting line.
the clearer your skin gets,
the more you notice your jaw.
the better your jaw looks,
the more you notice your eyes.
the moment your eyes seem acceptable,
you discover ten other things to hate.
the mountain grows taller
every time you climb it.
sometimes you wonder
if perfection was invented
only to keep people running.
you remember being younger.
before mirrors became enemies.
before photographs felt like punishments.
before attraction became mathematics,
before every smile felt like a competition,
before every beautiful person passing by
left another invisible scar.
now every room feels different.
you notice who gets looked at.
who gets approached.
who gets remembered.
you notice how easily some people exist.
how effortlessly they move through life,
collecting moments
you have spent years imagining.
someone laughs at their joke.
someone touches their arm.
someone remembers their name.
simple things.
ordinary things.
things that somehow became extraordinary.
and you tell yourself
it shouldn't matter.
but it does.
because beneath every obsession with beauty
there is usually something smaller,
something quieter.
the desire to be wanted.
the desire to be chosen.
the desire to walk into a room
and not feel invisible.
late at night,
when the world finally grows silent,
you lie awake staring at the ceiling.
your phone glows beside you,
filled with transformations.
before and after.
before and after.
before and after.
and every success story feels strangely painful.
proof that effort matters,
yet somehow never enough.
you wonder how many years
you have sacrificed at the altar of self-improvement.
how many sunsets went unnoticed
because you were studying your reflection.
how many conversations ended early
because insecurity arrived first.
how many memories dissolved
under the weight of comparison.
the room is dark now.
the mirror can no longer see you.
for a moment,
that feels like mercy.
you pull the blanket closer,
listening to distant traffic,
imagining thousands of strangers
living lives you'll never witness.
some are beautiful.
some are average.
some are neither.
yet all of them are moving forward,
carried by time whether they deserve it or not.
and suddenly,
you realize how exhausted you are.
not from dieting.
not from training.
not from grooming,
or routines,
or endless analysis.
but from carrying yourself
like a problem that needs solving.
from treating your reflection
as a battlefield.
from believing that happiness exists
one more improvement away.
the sadness settles over you gently.
not like a storm.
more like snowfall.
quiet.
cold.
inescapable.
you think of every version of yourself
that stood before a mirror
and found disappointment waiting.
the child who never worried about angles.
the teenager who learned comparison.
the person you are now,
still searching for permission
to feel worthy.
and somewhere in the darkness,
a thought appears.
small enough to miss.
fragile enough to break.
maybe the tragedy was never
that you weren't perfect.
maybe the tragedy was spending years
believing perfection was the price of love.
the ceiling remains silent.
the room remains empty.
the ache remains.
but for the first time all night,
you stop imagining a different face.
you close your eyes.
the mirror is gone.
the measurements are gone.
the rankings,
the comparisons,
the endless calculations
gone.
and in the darkness,
you are simply a person.
tired.
lonely.
human.
waiting for sleep to arrive
like a visitor who still remembers your address,
waiting for morning to return,
waiting for the day when your reflection
is no longer something to conquer,
but someone to forgive.
- its my first poetry,i tried tried writing the most of the poetry by my own experience (i cried about 5x times while writing this.) hope u like it lads
