Pen in Motion

I am enough –
all of me,
not just parts,
not pieces that you can pick
and choose
and patch together –
fashion into something
socially acceptable so everyone
will smile with approval.
But nope –
that’s not my bag.
I don’t want to be acceptable anymore.
I don’t want to check off
someone’s list and get a seal of approval.
I want to be me.
Just me.
No additives or fillers.
Nothing artificial to make me look right
for the pictures.
Took a while, but I finally got it figured out –
I’m totally unique and
not made to be in the regular flow.
Because I have my own,
I am enough,
and if you don’t like it,
then you’re out of luck for anything else.
I’m done moving myself
around to fit into everyone – or someone else’s mold.
Been there,
did that enough that I don’t want
any more t-shirts.
I am enough.
Nothing else to say.
Peace out.

I’ll never forget the day

when I finally figured out who I was.

No labels,

no political correctness,

nothing neat and easily explained.

I was a blend of terms and ideas and styles and blood.

All of it, all over the place.

Took me a while to shut out the noise

and see for myself.

But when I got it, I really got it.

The emperor finally found his clothes.

Her clothes.

My power suit, so to speak.

Feathers flying like they were meant to all along.

So I leveled my gaze and went for it.

Sometimes things happen —

that’s what we say when it’s too complicated,

or painful,

or petty,

or messy to explain

and we just want to shrug it off,

even though

we know that isn’t happening

anytime soon.

Because things happen —

like when I married the wrong man

who bullied me

into

      the

            ground

and never thought he spoke unkindly.

Or when I let that person

break my heart over and over

and over,

like I’m not china.

Or when the first of two monsters

took something from me and left only scars.

But hey – things happen.

Yep — things.

I saw that old man, all covered in stone,
from the top of his head
and well into his shaggy beard –
petrified from years of regret and wondering
about what was there
and what might come next.
He’s stuck,
there in that tomb,
just close enough to the water to be taunted,
but never allowed to drink.
That must be how Prometheus felt after
the millionth day of his spleen being ripped from his body.
Was the spleen important back then?
Did Zeus know what it did?
Maybe he also had some insight into the function
of the appendix.
Maybe he is also punishing this god
for choosing Earth
and the mortals instead of the soap opera in heaven.
Zeus captured this old god’s sadness
perfectly,
and then encased him in stone
to relive it for all time.
I wonder if that guy’s wishing he could switch places
with Prometheus
and lose his spleen for a few millennia.

I wish we could communicate in poems.

Forget the gifs and memes

and emojis

and hashtags and the newest slang

that I still don’t understand.

Let’s only speak in metaphors and iambic pentameter

(if either of us is feeling brave)

and push beneath our surface and really get

a good look under the hood

and see what’s what at the end of the day.

I want to take your breath away

and all that jazz.

Let’s bare souls and see who’s still standing

when the dust settles.

Hopefully I used enough idioms for your fancy.

There’s a man in that animal’s face –

or perhaps

it’s a devil of some kind,

given the horns.

Or maybe a creature from another world.

Or a fictional character –

perhaps it’s Beauty’s beast who is lost

and needs to return home.

Or maybe,

there really is a man in there,

trapped in that animal,

all burly and rough and gorgeous and graceful.

So much power

and not enough legs to slow things down.

But somehow,

he does stop himself,

both the animal and the man,

and glides like a Thoroughbred who just won the Triple Crown.

That blue shimmer makes him seem

like a super hero –

strong and dashing and ready to save damsels.

But if those azul eyes could talk,

they would probably ask for water instead.

He must be thirsty by now.