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,
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.