I hate myself in photographs, I'm sure that can’t be me,
That’s not how I see myself, not who I want to be,
I don't recognise that woman’s mug as who I am inside.
I know they say it never does but the camera must have lied.
Before a lens that’s being aimed, I pull a silly grin
Which creases up my eyes, adds lines, highlights my double chin.
I’m sure I worry far too much about the perfect pose
And how to find an angle that will minimise my nose.
I'm not a supermodel, truer word could not be said,
There’s nobody who’s paid me just to get out of my bed.
Perhaps I need to lighten up, avoid the self-censorious
And do my best to love myself, though facially inglorious,
Embrace my ageing features, yes, try not to be so vain,
Remind myself I'm younger than I’ll ever be again.
This prompts the further thought that in old pictures seen today –
All those I really disliked then – it seems I looked okay.
So maybe what I need to do with images I hate
Is refuse to view them straight away, be patient, simply wait.
Cast forward forty years or so, I’ll think that I looked great
In those days – now the present – if I get to 98!