I am just this fleshy, bony 

Bag of body, 

Enveloped in pink toned hide  

And sheltered by the soft bristle 

Of tiny blonde strands.  

I am hard to the push, 

With ossein structure  

And a hole in my stomach 

Waiting for life 

But only being flushed with modified substance.  

I am the present head of the lineage, 

With an overfed past 

And a thirsty future. 

Longing to be more than what I am, 

But learning to understand it.  

I am cradled in my womanly places 

With hunks of fat and sensitivity.  

I am curved in,  

Resembling the eighth of Archimedes’ children. 

I am assembled in the most animalistic fashion – 

Strutting like a tigress in heat, 

Ripping like a wildebeest in its teeth, 

Flourishing like a peacock to a hen, 

Shielding like a bat being circled. 

I am worn down to simplicity 

And I complicate even that with my humanhood. 

I am dense and I am clunky  

And I am too aware of my body.  

Some days I wish I was all brain 

(But I am too scared to become that.) 

I feel the mechanisms of my joints  

Like rusted cogs in my system  

Working overtime in moving me  

Through the stages of life. 

I perform with thespian fluidity, 

Some days.  

Others, I work like shattered rapture  

Stomping its way through the battlefield 

Of my body’s war zones  

In search of its usual hidings, 

The place it called home 

Before the outside found its way in. 

These days make me feel alive. 

My eyes burn with fire-like fluttering 

As I observe my naked figure 

In the Maya of reflection.  

I can’t believe this body is real.  

I often feel doubled in weight, 

Slung down by my own muscular formation, 

Dragging along Atman’s enemy – my framework – 

With the drum beat of a red sponge 

Soaking in my left breast.  

It feels full, 

And it feels bigger  

Than the frame of my feminine vessel, 

Yet this is what keeps me constructing.  

I am the oracle of my own existence.  

It is exhausting to feel the responsibility  

Of my tiny breath  




With the world’s hurricane of static energy, 

But it makes me feel electric.  

My shell is ultimately a one-hundred-year blip 

In the stretch of the world’s ancestry, 

This irrelevant span that is everything to me 

May be nothing  

To the skin and bone and breath 

Of other lives in this swirl of surmised actuality 

That we call home. 

This thought brings me anguish. 

This thought brings me peace.  

By Lyric Deep.

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