I read my body like a road map
My ******* become mountains
My hips are flowing bodies of water
Here's to the not-so-lean lines
That tell me where the highways are
The railroad is the predominant form of transportation
In the quaint little town I depict on my skin
Train tracks cover inch by inch of me
From wrist to chest to thigh
Smothered in scars
That tell you where I've been
And where I hope to move away from.
Every good map has a starting point
For me, that was ****** abuse
Was verbal aggression
Was gas lighting
Then the extra distance in the middle
Was suicidal thoughts
Was bulimia
Was starting therapy
Was never being good enough for anyone
I'm not quite to where I want to be yet
But I'm progressing to the city of
I am good enough for me
Now I worship these train tracks
No more fresh blood
But I can kiss the scars
I find myself in love with my existence
Rather than ashamed of my past
I will handle my map like ancient scrolls
Like a golden altar
Not settling for any silly lover
Who does not exalt this sacred land, this body
And to love where I am going,
You must honor each and every place
I have been.

because there are not enough poetry readers out there
a lot of poets checking on if their latest work
got any hits
not enough English teachers too!

This world was not
Meant; for an angel's
Display, the angel only
Cometh, to bringeth light
In dark day's.

The angel's only
Place, is from the
Star's wherein they
Came. The angel's
Art of God, not of
The world's hate.

The angel's art the
Bringer's, the messenger's
Of life; they cometh O' they
Goeth, they leaveth by the night.

The angel's art fading
Dying in mystical wind's;
Their partially human to,
For they've indulged in
Worldly sin's.

The world was not
Meant; for an angel's
Display. For an angel
Only cometh, to giveth
Light to empty flames.



©Brandon Nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry