I am not an object
I am not a body
good for nothing
I am not a mannequin
defined by some different facade
to aid the next animal of a boy's
hunger
for what
lust
love
not the latter thats for sure
hungry for nothing but a good time
well excuse me when I don't jump to your call
on the drop of a dime
don't stand there and tell me I'm better than the rest
Or that this time's different
you haven't change
don't take me for deranged
I know how it works
tell me I'm something special
with your words
though your eyes scream
just adequate
Don't stand there and tell me I'm special
Somedays the hurt gets me
it attacks everyone at some point
right
well tonight it's got me
wrapped its arms tight
around my body
I can't take it anymore
I am more than a body
in fact
I have a soul
no
I am a soul
A soul
that comes at with the toll
of a body
An unflattering vessel to something
amazing

Look in the mirror
Look at the once strong
beautiful girl
where does she belong
now
Look at the once young face
skin ripped off then put back into place
Where did you go
This is not your face
You had a happier one once
Before him
Before you became nothing but a
shell of a once-been
shell of a has-been
A body of
who now
This is not you
The face staring back in the mirror
Don't stand there and tell me your the same
that you haven't changed
you're not a pupet
not someone to be controlled by
a boy who has not yet
known what it's like to stand up and be a man
I wish you could see what we do
but you can't with his hands over you
Controlling you
telling you what to do
and who to be
how to act
who to see
Who are you now
because I wouldn't be able to pick you out of a crowd
not like your allow
to even say who you are out loud
at risk of him not liking the answer
You need to face the facts
This isn't you
I don't know what I can do
because I'm through
done hoping this isn't true
everyone else is done too
Done watching you

To the would be
beauty princess
who was almost  
a would be Beauty Queen
But was not quite good enough
This is a would be poem
to all the
would be
pretties
if they weren't so unique
to the few
would be
rockers
if they could stand up and be talkers
to all the would be
intellectuals
if all they said was factual
This is a would be poem
to all the would be's
who couldn't be
who shouldn't be
So please tell me
Why
all of these would be's
are never
Will be's
Or even
Have beens
because even that is still better than
Never tried
Or even
Unknown's
Because sometimes the worst thing is
Not knowing
Having no idea of what would've been
instead wondering what
could've been
So this is a poem to the would be
lovely pageant girls
who could've had the world
but were sat down and told
by someone too old
that the world is too cold
and they would never
Make it
Fake it
Break it
break the idea of different
make the change
This is to all my would be brothers and sisters
Who don't have
Can't have
Who never had
The Chance
become
**I am's

my intelligence is not defined by a number, nor a letter.
nor should I be graded on a curve
by people
who don’t know me.
What does knowing the pythagorean theorem
have to do with me being a good person?
what will memorizing words on a page
help me with my rage
raging about how education has become
this conveyor belt
chewing up and spitting out
society’s warped up idea
of intelligence.
Throw me in a classroom with twenty-something students
just to tell me I’m better than him
but not as smart as her
teachers saturating our brains
with force fed textbook equations
telling us this is what we have to know to make it
“make it on time”, they say
“Passing it in late is not okay”
but when I am eventually thrown out
of this conveyor belt of education
the realization will be that life does not have
a set schedule.
my life will not change on time, as you ask
I cannot cram my creativity onto a five-paragraph
piece of paper.
I cannot crunch my knowledge
down onto six pages
about who I am
Don’t give me guidelines
my future does not have guidelines
you think you’re teaching us information
but in reality, you’re teaching us around the system
of how to get a passing grade
but not the exceeding knowledge
knowledge about what?
Our history?
what about our future?
We can’t learn about our future by staring at a blackboard
in a dim-lit room
with twenty-something other people
wondering what the hell we’re doing here
but being too scared to stand up
and ask.

I need to write a slam
what about
about people
about places
about money
about faces
I am a human being
not to be judged about my creativity
judged on my productivity
Not an object
I will not be contained by letters on a page
A page written by people who don’t know me
Claim they can show me
a picture is worth a thousand words
they say
Then what is a face worth
Starting at birth
we trap ourselves
limit ourselves to these words crammed together
letters
these small portrayals
to who I am
I stare
stare in a mirror
reflection getting clearer
clarification getting nearer
you’re pretty they say
then they turn around and you hear
‘she’s already classified’
classified as average
nothing special
You’re telling me
I am pretty
I am witty
A 5 letter portrayal
of a person
will not define me
will not make me
show me
who I am
I am not an object
not to be used as a pawn in the
circus we’ve happened to be spawned
into
The way i see it
there are few
few people to realized I am not contained by a page
nor a word
And I will stand up and be heard
I stand to say
Someday
fairness will come my way
When you will not be able to
confine a person in one word
nor a hundred
Someday you will ask yourself
Will I be okay
You will be okay at somethings
great at other things
But you will be outstanding at everything
Stop limiting yourself to a definition
only in words
define your self in actions
pick yourself apart in fractions
Change your life in transactions
and stop worrying about what your new definition is
I hear small voices begging to be defined
Tell me I’m pretty they say
pretty what
Pretty desperate
Pretty pathetic
Pretty separate
separate from those who choose to be content
being undefined
becoming redefined
staying behind
Hiding our plastered on definitions
Plastered to these facades
That become flawed
splitting apart at the seams
limiting your dreams
but brief descriptions
plated to our foreheads
So Pretty
Really Witty
What a Pity
Pity it is to let others define you
Your own self becoming blurred
These small molds called words
Taking you and forming you
into a conveyor belt barbie
The same as her
no different than she
But I will be me
I will be heard
I Will Never Be Defined
By Just Words