Who is this Body?

Who is this body?

Why is this body?

What can this body be?

Is it weak? Infantile?

Is this body even me?


I am not my own. 

I live - for everybody else.

I love - for everybody else.

I lie - but only to myself.


A collection of parts - none belonging to myself.

My existence, it seems, is to please everyone else. 

Not too ghetto, not too rowdy.

Not too weird, not too cloudy.

Just the right amount of everything,

But the equivalent sum of nothing.


I am not my own.

This skin does not belong to me.

This skin with tones that match the trees.

This skin that sings the songs of those forgotten.


I am pleasure. 

The experiment that never takes.

The flask that never breaks.

Even when the heat from the tar on streets burns the glass that I am made of.


I am forgotten.

Remembered through folklore.

And I can never give more because I simply do not have any more to give that is not my whole self.


But I am not myself.


I am everyone. 


And Nothing at the same time.

This poem is about: 
Our world