The Human Condition of Sorts: As Told Through Poetry and Written Word
Poetry & Ramblings
I’m so gentle, I leave you to drink at the watering hole.
I am made of volatile materials and wonder if it will incapacitate you to take some of me.
What rubies have you pilfered before mine resided inside, and how pure were they?
Was their blood blackened from lack of oxygen and light?
How sweet was their life?
I’d ask a favor, to drink me entirely dry, but you leave before you’re even satiated.
I’ve been unfurled a few thousand times,
and I know just how unattractive my spine must appear snapped and folded in such an inhuman manner. I am the same tenderness as in the womb, encapsulated in a life separate of mine. Both lost and nestled in some known spot, buried down deep with hums of my existence occasionally escaping as bubbles to the surface, so you are aware I’m still here.
“I’m still here“, I leak out and up to the very top.
As if I wasn’t aware of just my slight weight, but a grain amongst grains with a baseless faith in some dividing line.
I toe it and grow nauseous at the homogenous
scent of being a human alongside humans.
Flesh and doubt create a pungent concoction when fused with blood.
And I think another could set her eyes deep and shave her skin down to challenge my vulnerability, and suddenly she’s me.
And you love me
love her
love me.
The Human Condition of Sorts: As Told Through Poetry and Written Word 