Older In My Body, Not Of My Body - ORIGINAL PIECE

                                    

                                          
I felt like nothing at all and I feel that way still, just empty space where a person would be. the time inbetween felt as though the possibilities were endless, I'm not sure if I could see the end in sight. I think my time with malice and anger left me feeling as malleable as clay. they shape me into what they wish, they don't consider the heart hidden beneath the surface. its bleeding but it still beats, it gives me hope. I'll be better still; papers and documents, blood and bones of my oppressors wont defy me. shape me into a bird and I'll fly to the sun, its rays will shine upon my wings and I will be at one with fire and ash. let me rise like a phoenix and let me fall in repeat fashion. leave my shadow in its place as a reminder of where time has taken me, though fear still shakes me from my dreams in cold sweats and anxious tears. a body in phases, still the same I was borne into the world with. twisted into distorted fashion, a believer of vicious remarks spoken out of envy and spite - a hatred of mind and body like a weed around the soul of humanity. a coldness seeps through my pores, it seems to freeze my spirit into eternal statue, caught in the vengeful, Medusa gaze of bitterness and time. time. time, what is time? they say it heals all wounds but is it not my penchant for despair and heartache which fuels my need to write doen thought to paper, as though if it were to disappear into the void of human consciousness, I would cease to have a purpose? is it not enough to live and breathe the written form, to allow artistic passion to flow through you as though they were visions from a benevolent God? or must we extract every last drop in desperate attempt to meet demand of a society fuelled by greed, by currency of death and madness? money. I hate it so. is it not enough for me to write because I love it so? bodies. I wish for existence, I wish for beauty, I wish for love and I wish for contemplation. I wish for morality in its white, black and grey complexities. I wish for stories minor and great, give me epics and give me mundane. I'll write what I wish and I'll make what I can, with one foot in the grave. I'll look in the mirror and see my body for what it brings me, as it fights to keep the other from following. I'll look inward and I'll fall through the looking glass, maybe I'll meet myself and I'll see what she says about my life in all its twists and turns. a path never straightforward, but unexpected in its strange beauty all the same.
                          
I hope I can make her proud.