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As I step onto the raised platform,
momentarily blinded by the spotlight,
fear washes over me
It's finally time⏲️
I've always wanted this, haven't I?
Toughen up!
But as I summon my courage
I hear a synthetic voice:
'Go back, you're too young.'
It says📯
Time passes⏳
Albeit slowly.
Or does it?
I'm back on the platform.
It questions:
It seems you're older.
"Um.."
Are you wearing animal skin?
"Um.."
Why can't you speak?
"Um.."
Go back.
I open my eyes once more.
The bright lights captivate me.
Just like a kaleidoscope🔭 ---
beautiful
Can you speak?
"Yes."
It seems you've shed your skin🪶
It analyzes.
" Mm"
You still have to work on your speech
"I'll work on it."
Are you still with your card🔖?
"..."
Why are you dressed like a nun.
"..."
Go back.
Why are you so so board-like?
Why are you so plantlike🎋?
Why is your hair so long?
Why are your clothes so bright?🇵🇲
Why is your nose so flat?
Why don't you frolic?🕴️
Why do you smile so much😄?
Why is your circle so wide?
Why is your hair cropped?💇
Why don't you stand straight ?🕺
Why do you have freckles?
So many Whys
Tired I leave the platform for the millionth time.
Whispers surround me👥
"She's such a slut going around like that."
"She can't even walk well🦿"
"I hear her circle is as wide as her being."
The whispers blur my senses🧬
"I hear she has irregularities."
"Her lips are so thin."
Pointed fingers jab at me.
While tongues tear me apart🌪️
Those eyes pry into my soul🕵️
Once more, I stand on the platform.
The bright light no longer blinds me
The darkness pulls at my very being🕳️
I finally see my arbiters.
My evaluators.
Their inhumane faces staring back.
I scan for the slightest difference.
None. They are perfect.
Like I wanted to be.
The synthetic voice questions:
"Why do you have such irregularities?
Why are you so imperfect?"
I stare down at my feet. No, beyond it ---
the darkness convulses.
I see my reflection at it's heart:
Patches of mess🕸️
Oozing with corruption.
"Rigettala!
Rigettala!
Cast her off!"
My little owner screams in outrage.
The darkness pulls and contracts.
I'm off the platform.
Laying formless among a pile of discarded dolls🧸
I wonder who else will step onto the platform.
Xoxo
YOU ARE READING
FLEETING THOUGHTS
General FictionWriting poems for the blues. To let my inner voice have her own podium. Just for fun actually. Or maybe not, depends on how you interpret it, It still all depends on the human mind And heart in the end.
