Posts Tagged ‘self image’

I am not a glamourous man,
Not a Prince Charming,
More of a Grendel or Hyde,
Something akin to a blobfish in a shirt,
A weirdo,
An eccentric enemy of the state,

But when I place that crown upon my head,
That mad hatter headpiece,
Victorian fashion supreme,
I don’t care anymore,
I know that I’m finally me,
I’ll be able to grin,

With it comes the face paint,
A clown taking shape under its rim,
Madness coalescing with joy,
With this ensemble I can recover from normality,
But I fear it’d all be for naught,
If not for my top hat.

I can’t keep that beeping out of my head,
That incessant crying,
The trilling of the heartbeat monitor,
Forced on when my heart was trod on,
Decibels striking my thoughts with scourges,
A result of things gone wrong,

That flatline,
Blades across eardrums,
But the bleeding has ceased,
Flesh is replaced with stone,
A warm soul is now calcified,
Heartache has given rise to blizzards,

I shed my person suit,
This is the demise of that former quintessence,
This war has made me cold,
Now it’s every man for himself,
Now let me embrace some chaos,
Now I embrace that beep.

The mirror lies,
I swear it,
It’s very sheen rippling with deceit,
Or perhaps malice,
It insults me with that foul image,
A reflection of some miscreation,
Is that who I am?
That creature,
Are those my eyes?
Those unfeeling oculi,
But I foolishly believed myself a man,
A higher primate,
A lie like a million glass shards,
Bad luck for a lifetime,
Denying my own monstrosity,
A crisis of the very self,
Carrying oneself as a somebody,
While being a nothing of a ghoul.

Some of us escape society,
Canines of every shade and shape,
Runaway hounds and beasts,
Shredding our way out of vanilla cages,
Longing to run with more wild packs,
Individuals with no collars,

We’re bad dogs,
Authority wants us on a leash,
Normality reaches out with nets,
But we tore off those fingers,
And ran free,
Slavering and howling,

Daily life becoming wildlife,
Dodging slings and dog whistles,
Animal control in public form,
We follow sweet scents of unrestraint,
Tonight we are not docile pets,
But wolves on the run.

Is this my peak?
Are there no more skills open to me?
Do no more sides of Everest remain?
Is this my premature apotheosis?
A dead writer liable to be forgotten?

I am already savagely windswept,
Cruelly bruised and scathed,
Sweat has coloured my skin and hair,
Beaten down by the world,
Beaten down by my own closed fist,

I know not how to improve,
How to sharpen my pen,
I don’t know how to make my mark,
How to grant myself a modicum of immortality,
How to break my barbed limits,

How to be competent.

To some the body is a temple,
A pagoda of perfection,
Built upon leylines of zen,
Spirituality making up the brick and mortar,
The human body sharpened to a spearpoint,
Physical prowess matched only by mental acumen,
Balance in all things,
These people are monks of the self,

It is an admirable way,
But it is not mine,
I’m more of a ronin of the road,
I walk and suffer what comes,
My body is more of an overloaded carriage,
Ramshackle yet sufficient,
Unbalanced yet relentless,
I get by in my inferior way.

This form is a bad joke,
Suited best to lost caverns,
Yet necessity demands it be revealed at times,
Stripped of its daily vestments,
Revealed to the gaze,
Though I don’t wish to be uncovered like a relic,

My skin cowers from the light,
Anathema to my shy soul,
I feel unsafe outside my fabric armour,
Unarmed and abashed,
Vulnerable and languid,
My body longs for rescue from the wardrobe,

My mirror cracks at the sight,
Everyone’s a critic,
Not that I can argue,
Oh to be a vampire,
To be hidden ever by silk and polyester,
As invisible as I should be.

I feel off-kilter,
Somehow weighted to one side,
The mind hangs in the balance,
A set of scales nestled in our egos,
Ungodly yet ornate,
Lifes events are as weights on one side or the other,

Life can bring circumstance of both good and bad,
Too much of either can be destructive,
Positive and negative,
Success and heartbreak,
Narcissism and misanthropy,
Use these events as lessons not additions to your id,

Either weight dropping is a fell stroke,
One way leads to decadence,
The other a fall to adversity,
Both are forms of insanity,
Both will destroy your own soul,
Both are evil by different modus operandi,

Do not allow your scales to dip,
One must strive for balance,
Be as a pendulum,
Map a safe travail through lifes hills and valleys,
The ups and downs,
Protect your minds integrity.

Society dragged me aside to let me know,
I have childish notions of being an artist,
A foolish path,
Ludicrous wants and ideas,
Plans of a dunce,
Or so am I led to believe,

Am I just pretending?
An impostor,
Doing the motions without understanding?
Wearing my silly apron,
With my silly pen,
Writing my silly little words,

When I string together webs of emotion,
Am I a creator?
When I put words to paper,
Am I a writer?
When I brush colour on to parchment,
Am I a painter?

I don’t know the truth of it,
Perhaps I do sully the name of wordsmith,
Playing at artistry,
Wearing a mask of competence,
Though I shake behind it,
Perhaps I am just pretending after all.

Somedays I long to be a contortionist,
A performer,
A sculptor of the body,
Creating the impossible with their form,
A Durvasa pose of my own,

Remold the rubber,
To rearrange oneself,
From this hideous thing,
Into an enticing object,
Improvement through pain,

Dislocate the flaws,
Reset the bones,
Loose joints of a broken soul,
Put this to there,
And that to over yonder,

Part of this cirque du soleil,
I’d be a human anew,
A macabre sculpture,
Something magnitudes more alluring,
But would I be myself?
Or just part of the troupe?