Identity

If I had a bullet for every time I hid my feelings

with the fear of exposing my true identity,

my corpse would have been long gone

beseeching the immortal death for a second chance.

My soul has rose lips afraid to kiss itself,

for it is embedded with thorns.

The very thorns handy as the percussion of conundrum.

My hair is a withered strand,

too experienced to live or grow.

It carries a thousand emotions,

but isn't even half in its whole.

My pupils are a mysterious pit and my existence

is balancing on the beam of enlightenment.

My ears are a cursed tongue

whispering unholy thoughts in my sacred church.

My nose, oh my nose!

It creeps in the stench of betrayal at the mere sight of people.

For it, all men wear the same perfume.

My voice is a series of symphonic notes,

that ranges from saccharine jingles

to the screeching shouts of feminists.

My stomach is a disfigured disaster

of pent up stress and influential diet.

It rains on every honourable day and

takes me with its sucking sway.

My hands are an artistic expression of a folk school kid.

The joints try to create a piece of sublimity on its way.

Yet another of my own,

my thighs are a creature taking an entire zone.

The legs are fragile and tender as a parched fruit,

plucked before its reign.

My feet have seen the world ahead of me,

it guides me into some other eternal mystery.

Lastly my heart is a cage for my darkest roars,

that are trying to ring the bells of my home.

Day after day my heart resigns and

discovers the gloomy secrets of my mind.

Still one thing my darkness has taught me is to,

embrace my body as a lover would do.