While We're Alive

Strength

It's eleven thirty, and I debate whether or not I should take a shower;
Not because I want to be dirty,
But because what's the point in cleansing my body in a world
Designed to taint it.

The work my body does to heal and care for itself
Undone by a moments thought.

I wash the earth off myself,
But I do not have tye strength to dig for gems.

Often, I don't remember my strength.
Mostly because I don't see myself as strong.

I don't know how much I can bench,
Nor can I do a decent pull up.

I did not grow up in love with myself,
Instead I grew in love with my mind.

My muscles are made of the type of artist I am.

A pen, a pencil, a brush does not need the strength of ten thousand men,
Instead it needs the weight and precision of a quill.

I'm often surprised by my own reflection,
Because I forget this is who I am.
Rough skin, dark eyes, and a beard.
I forget I am a man.
And that is because I do not feel like one.
Or more, I don't feel like I've earned the title of a man.
I expect to see the face a child at his first karate lesson waiting for his nineties montage to grow into a big strong man.

I tried karate once,
And in my trial class I was afraid.
So I cried.
And I went home.

And growing up,
I was not happy with myself
So I blames the poor frightened child
Who didn't know any better.

In truth,
My body was not meant for fighting.
My body was made of universe and rose petals,
Designed for loving.
When the world through hate and shame
My weapon would be forgiveness.