You scratched the record
And now my head is back on repeat
It goes over that same beat
Over and over again to the point where
I don't even wanna attempt to speak

If silence is golden
Then I'm the biggest known mine
Because it feels as though I've been skating over myself when putting words into rhyme
Always the same topics from me and not to interesting metaphors

You scratched it like a DJ on turntables because I'm winding up to the end of this fable, I can still write and I'm more than willing and able but I gotta stretch my muscles again before I lose the sharpness on my pen, that's my sword

I hate my stupid brain
Always forgetting, day dreaming and overthinking
Scheming on things that I know can't happen, or won't for some time
And when it's not doing that it's arranging words and punch lines together by rhythm and syllables that rhyme

I hate my stupid heart, always anxious and never not being optimistic,
Always creating dreams that my brain will produce
Always searching for something beside hockey and poetry to invest in, when I don't even know how to do my taxes.

Lastly, brain we need to have one more chat
I know we've had our differences, which is weird because you occupy the space underneath my scalp.
But if you could be so kind as to become more flexible to changes in a rehearsed routine
That would be, dear fleshy *****, simply keen

The first time he kissed me, my friends assured me that I was just another body
I dutifully disagreed- "I am special"
The second time he kissed me, I learned pretty fast that my friends were right
I need not be
I am not special I am just
A woman

When a stranger wrapped his scarf around my chest,
His foreign accent fondling me with the words explaining that
he would be jealous to see other men looking at me I smiled
politely and waited to be dug out by my friends nearby because
I am not special I am just
The body of a woman

Hearing a whistle blown towards my general direction I bow my head, ignore all of the "hey baby"sand "que linda"s
Shrinking into myself I hope to disappear from the street because
I am not special I am just
The body of a woman

Walking the city alone, I make sure to act as if nobody is there hoping with futility
That maybe if they can not be seen then I will not be seen either
Although I do not need to try so hard to become invisible because
I am not special I am just
The body of a woman

Waiting to hear from you and allowing myself to be passive with our fate I rehearse that I am just another kiss, another body for you to call home because
I am not special I am just
The body of woman

These days I do not measure my worth in pounds on the scale because
That number is far too large- far too significant
Instead I look to the tags inside my pants because they represent how much space I do not take up

Exploring the streets I am constantly checking how many shadows are following behind me
What turns they're taking and how far behind they are
My escape routes are already planned for the inevitable because
no matter how significant I truly am, that is always compensated for through the insignificance of my body no-
Our bodies, women
We are miraculous, glory filled temples
It is not our fault that no matter how much fabric we try to hide behind we are always ****** beings that
Our accomplishments are that much more revered because we had to overcome our womanhood first that
Woman is a necessary adjective to frame titles or context because
Without it one will assume a man is being spoken of
Each day is a cause for celebration because each sunset marks another day of survival but the morning sunrise alerts us for another day at war

I'm an empty room with no paint on the walls
Filled with broken hopes and empty thoughts
The wood is caving in and people come through to see and touch
As soon as they linger too long they realize the empty room upsets them too much
They hear ventriloquists song, the wood carving words as silent nursery rhymes and shallow one verses lullabies
The windows are broken and the wind waltzes in, it towers under the floorboards and swallows the bad parts in
Schizophrenic slumber parties with sandman and death, fascist following of whoever is next
The vines slither in, deceivingly vile, stealing all the smiles and sorrowful trials of the men in their nightgowns and high heels so tall, everything started to grow so small
The table outside the door has a bottle of the last person to exits drug of choice, it makes it worth the while

I want to be the band
around my wrist,
at peace,
at rest,
with the sole purpose of being a band,
around my wrist.
With nothing but thread and elastic
holding me together.
Without option of thinking,
but simply existing.
Without the desire to love
or be loved,
but to be loved perhaps,
and hated perhaps.
I want to be the band,
around my wrist,
and I don't want to be me.