Thoughts on my body as an awkward member of space

How much energy does every single person on this freaking planet waste trying to imagine themselves like someone else? We all compare, we all worry and fret that we aren’t like someone else, we all clang about like noisy instruments hoping to be heard, and hoping that our voice sounds most like an orchestra, but going home worrying if we sound like the recorder we couldn’t quite learn how to play in kindergarden. And that worry should be null when we factor in that most people aren’t even worried about how awkward we are, because deep down they have the same fears and worries and we all just spend our lives hoping that we can justify those worries and make them disappear into the oblivion. It’s necessary that we take less time fretting about the imaginative things others may think of us, because honestly, it’s just negative energy misplaced. I’m making a stand against feeling awkward in my own skin. Enough is enough. Power stances all the way. I will strive for this.

“The truth from the streets of every city you live in”

I have an entire series of poems I want to build upon this with. I have had them in the back of my mind for over a year, so I’m excited to delve into them. Please comment! 

 

From the pages of her body

she is the wind in his sails,

remaining a zypher,

a calm before the storm,

only turning into a hurricane

when the sharks

come out to play,

to transform her literature

into dog-eared writing

used to pass the time

while doing ungodly things

in the restroom.

There is poetry

hidden beneath

her bone structure,

found below the shelf

that is her breastbone.

There is more beauty

in her heart than those

who own her give her,

thrusting their decrepit bodies

against her,

starving for their share

of the meat.

 

She does not deny that her smile

hangs on her face

like a crooked addition

to a broken night sky

full of copper,

a satirical shape

in the promise of death

she carries around

like bad breath

and her mind is closed off

like road blocks,

sectioned off by labels

that brand her,

ruin her,

tell her she is worthless

because she’ll always

be a whore.

 

She does not attempt

to negate any of these

accusations,

only allows her legs to remain

the trenches of warfare,

that fondly familiar place

–work.

 

and though they might try

to convince her otherwise,

her body is a beautiful work of art

strung along like a windchime of bones

her hips whispers of the wind

silently singing secrets

to the birds.

but no one can see

that her lips are graveyards

a testament to the troubles

this world has pressed

and stamped her full of

as ugly as a newspaper,

ink smudging on your fingers.

She thinks the only way

she can leave an imprint

on your heart

is by slamming that ink into you,

bite you in the vena cava

with her array of poisonous

words.

 

Because it’s all she has left.

Her memories hanging

in the ceiling beams

that rest above the headboards

because that’s the only place

she’s ever made

anything worth remembering

because no one ever told her

that she’s beautiful

and that she’s worth,

so much more

than the street venom

she fills her cavities with

every day

of her lonely, lonely existence.

 

Her spirit cries out.

Desperation.