Smooth fingers grabbing at sagging skin.
Palm against palm.
Touching, feeling the self.
Familiarizing the curves and bumps,
Wrinkled corners and bends,
Of the face like a landscape.
Nose stuck out or flattened against the face.
Eyes sunken in or round and flashy.
Memorizing the stretchy, fleshy vessel,
Strange and more complicated than man made machines.
Breathing, writhing, quivering,
Shaking at the touch of another body.
An awkward heap of meat still so sensual;
Still so perceptive and fragile.
This scarred, folded over, oddly shaped,
Blemished and beautiful mess of skin.
Hair and fingernails groomed or not.
Whether you love this body or not,
Everything is where it should be,
No matter if you hate this body or not.
Trillions of cells make up a heart beating,
Lungs breathing in open air.
Our consciousness and vanity make us aware
That we are living inside of the strange.
YOU ARE READING
Resting Place
PoetryA collection of poems that is more experimental and practice stuff than anything. I'll test out different forms and subjects, have a little fun with it. It'll be ongoing until I get bored with the idea of it. I'd like to hear what you think! Tell me...
