Manifesto of Me
I am not just scarred covered, tattoo colored skin.
I am a lover of words, my nose forever glued to ink scented pages.
Eyes that hunger for the images formed between the lines of glittering prose.
Eyes that see the true face of others ever behind the costumes and under the make-up.
Windows used to look out of and see into.
A collector of smiles.
My mouth may spew aggressive harsh frostbiting tones when provoked but
prefers the sweet slickness of laughter, love, and poetry.
Lips that drink life in.
Not with small dainty sips
but guzzling swallows that leave
escaping streams down my chin and throat.
Lips that allow love, joy, emotions, thoughts, and support to be expressed
never suppressed.
I am a lover of music.
Enjoying every drop of electrifying soul reviving rhythm
until I am a honey drunk bee.
My body buzzing with the melodies.
I use my ears to listen and not just to hear my cues to speak.
I am a pillar of strength that finds no weakness in crying.
I am arms that comfort.
Arms that carry heavy loads be they emotional, or physical.
Arms that when pushed at will push back.
I am a hopeless romantic heart searching for one who deserves the privilege to hold me.
A heart that endures the bittersweet ache of being torn between two cultures.
A heart that is fiercely loyal to those and that which it deems worthy of such faith.
I am a lover of true souls.
I am legs that have kicked holes in the endless blue bonnet Oklahoma skies
as I escaped the Earth's oppressive pull and swung into heavens above.
Legs that allow this body to rise after every fall still standing straight and tall.
My intelligence can not be judged or measured by
the pictures I have chosen to adorn my skin with.
I am a brain that seeks to focus more on why the caged bird sings, shakespeare's intoxicating
life altering prose, and the redeeming quality of being a Nobody down a rabbit hole rather than
the Jersey Shore.
One which aims to produce more than just grades on paper but to forever
seek out wisdom.
My hands give birth to creations built on nothing more than glue and
dizzying, limitless child-like imagination.
Once they were nothing more than the destroyers of anger, anxiety, and pain.
But they are meant for more than holding
sugarsweet singing lullaby razors against sinning skin.
I am more than the holding on to anger not ready to let go red,
learned the value of healing pink,
or the reminder of darker days white lines
that criss cross my repentant skin.
I am not ashamed, nor will I ever be ashamed of my saving grace
and personal map to hell and back.
But I will always be so much more than just scarred covered, tattoo colored skin.
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