What am I?
A flamboyant distraction,
A toy,
With bright, eye-catching colors,
And movable parts
To be bent into shapes,
And a body to pose
In stop motion photographs
Only when I'm pretty,
All you,
And I,
Want to see.
Who am I?
A dull solid noise
Silently constant in a room
Unnoticed when gone,
Desperately trying
To be pleasing
To the ear.
I'll go over your head
In a whip crack of your
Sentence,
Or straight to the floor
At your
Feet.
Where am I?
In the cushioned rubber room
Of my own scull.
In the closing trap of my ribs,
In the safest,
Most dangerous place I can be
His touch.
I am,
Painted damage.
A plastic surgeon's jigsaw puzzle
Masterpiece
After a train wreck.
But when the lights are out
You can see the real me,
I am damage,
Failure,
A loss,
A handicap,
Left behind,
Unlov-
NO.
STOP.
I am,
Not your mistakes,
But what I learn from mine.
I am,
Not what or who loves me back,
Or a display of funhouse
Mirrors
In the insane asylum
I built to hide in.
I am,
We are,
Incomplete
Works of art.
With not enough strokes of paint,
With much more wonder to add
To our canvases.
I am the person underneath
The problems I see,
I am a student
Learning
To be
Me.