Posts Tagged ‘self image’

You wield that word like a sabre,
As if to preclude my words and humanity,
To write me out,
And yes it is true,
I don’t exactly fit any puzzle,
Always out of step in conversations,
Odd socks and baggy shirts,
Socially awkward in the extreme,
But what of it?
A tiger can’t change his stripes,

This moniker you have bestowed upon me,
Freak,
Oddity,
Weirdo,
Loser,
It is a badge of honour,
I am proud of the war I waged to earn it,
I am strange,
And I’ll die on that hill,
With a weird grin on my face.

I pulled that cellophane over my head,
Covering my mouth and ears promised clarity,
A carrier bag emergency exit,
A suicidal aegis,
To drown out the voices,
Those noises of normal society,
To nullify their edges,
Their droll criticisms,
And as each breath was stolen in plastic,
As the clear veil grew foggy,
It was as if a great weight had dissipated,
Like oxygen leaving blue lips,
Normality could scold me no longer.

You see these shoes?
Cheap leather and cigarette-stained lace,
Sickly green and beggarly lemon,
Their oversized and gaudy visage inspires mockery,
And rightly so,
They mark me as a punchline,
An unfunny slime of a jester,
Shuffling through life,
My garish shoes applauding my languor,
Each plod as a joke not too witty,
Inflict your pity upon me if you will,
Or laugh your guts out,
I am not your entertainer,
I’m just a clown,
Let go by the world.

Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,

Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,

It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.

They call me a beast,
Better suited to the wilderness,
Out of sight and out of mind,
Poking fun at my snout and feral grimace,
And my growls of nonsense during dialogue,
Derisively patting me upon my bestial mane,

It’s true that I feel lesser,
I’m subhuman,
Flea-ridden,
I stumble across societal rules on all fours,
I’m a flawed simulacrum of a man,
Despoiled by minotaur horns and lizard eyes,

It’s not possible to tame a wild creature,
And my pelt isn’t worth mounting,
So leave me to my slavering and howling,
I’m hardly domesticated,
So why not run free?
I am a beast after all.

I hope these words find you honestly,
I’ve only ever wanted a quiet life,
A pastoral life,
Not an easy life,
No such farce exists,
But a serene one,

I’m a simple soul with a complex mind,
I was never a prodigy,
Not a Beethoven or Hemingway,
I was never a villain,
Not a Joker or Lecter,
I was never going to unmake the world,

I’m neither yin nor yang,
I’m just grey,
Striving to be nothing,
I just want to sit and see the world pass,
As easily as you read these words,
I just want a simple life.

When you imagine an artist,
You do not see me,
You see a noble practitioner of the word,
Your Tolkiens and Pratchetts,
Not me,
Not this freak with a pen,

I’m no artist,
I’m a monster of art,
My process is more of a hunt,
Deranged savagery in each stroke,
Less the orchestration of an artistic vision,
And more the dismemberment of prose,

The words I scribble are the meat,
The meanings behind them are a bitter aftertaste,
A happy accident,
Rending phrase from stanza,
Mutilating rather than composing,
Poetry coming from a state of psychosis,

I’ve read the greats,
My fangs were cut on their work,
This creature is a deviation from their ways,
I write because I must,
Perhaps one day,
I’ll write this monster a happy ending.

There is a weight upon my spine,
I don’t recognise it,
A small body holding twin instruments,
It feels primate in nature,
A simian struggle exists on my shoulders,
A quaint fez and maroon waistcoat,

The beats of its being ring true,
I recognise every clang,
They scream in my ears,
Every hateful fact I have embodied,
Each fault resounded in shrill tones,
Every tone of my inadequacy,

Nobody deserves this fate,
Not even this ghoul,
Profound cymbals against my temples,
Trowels glancing off block,
So in rage I hope you’ll endorse me,
F@#!?!K that monkey!

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.