Mirrors don't lie about frank and ernest portrayal...

Especially when giving cheeky badass
blemished physiognomic reflection
tricking me seeing displeasing likeness
Matthew Scott Harris, a grown lad brandishing
his treasured invisible cutlass
poised to strike, (where spiderlines
instantaneously provoked, webbed,
and frankly zapped shattering experience),
whereby yours truly

rendered unconscious to any pass
hubble gratefully dead singed hair zombie
straight away befriending image with him
aforementioned christened human biomass,
hence explains personal objection (mine)
devoid of any sass
sneaking a peek at (regarding employing
cute antiquated, quaint word) looking glass.

Feeble effort, butta lemme attempt to apprise
ye dear reader, how gasping
at me selfsame visual simulation spurs cries
and whispers with shrieks of horror
inexplicable nauseating revulsion jars myopic eyes
espying even willow the wisp gallivanting guise
think mine glassy doppelganger blithely

traipsing, tooling tiptoeing no lies
hands down acquiring masquerade ball door prize
if nothing else... try getting a fleeting rise
of humoresque judicious metaphorical
sucker puncheon the gut against self I satirize
February twenty third perhaps lame effort
to affect seeming witty and wise.

Mailer daemons rule cerebral roost,
whereby gimcrackery invectives loosed,
cuz all during growing up years bullies did boost
inferiority complex hatching adult
egg go self steam goosed
abysmal confidence building accomplishment
ye accurately deduced

charnel, (bilabial) frictional,
infernal... struggle moost
arduous (think Atlas, Sisyphus, plus
ten subsequent Greek mythological Titans) juiced
with eternal divinity upon
whose figurative shoulder humanity papoosed.