Malnourished

A woman

 

A beauty in an embroidered frame

The master of embassy, its creator

That mirror beckons her name, playfully

Society will be the flame in the incinerator

 

The master of beauty, obedient revenge

Her glow and trestle, radiant like potted pleasure

Warm honey eclipses her tears

Society will be the flame in the incinerator

A close source for a misunderstood gradient

 

Her glow and trestle, devout and knighted

The inner beauty stripped and suspended in the air

She gathered for words on a page to whisper

A close source for a misunderstood gradient

She needs not listen to open mouths, the casualty of the drum.

 

The inner beauty stripped and suspended in the air

The mirror beckons her name with a safety net

She needs not listen to those people, free falling for freedom.

A beauty in an embroidered frame

 

Like a thick cloak of wool shredded off the back

This mind so enchanted, bruised mirror

Unchained to enter full bliss of unknown tendencies

That mirror drug her in, playfully

 

No longer a slave in an embroidered frame

Her shriveled body hydrated and sips of marrow

It was the food she grasped and finally swallowed

Music fled from her hands and drenched these white pages

 

She broke the rules and showed the others

Beauty in what she had created

This spark collided to perform on stage with its brothers

Who knew words could dance

 

Veins filled with jumping pulses

She felt alive in a corpse that was once ridiculed

Her eyes married with her surrounding lush support

The world will quake, size 12, she is awake

 

Society will punish her recovery path

Debt will be paid from organ to organ

People are people with no interpretation, not even there own

We are all beauties embellished with embroidered frames

 

Knowledge flowered from her to young minds she weekly mentor

Mesmerized by ballerina language forgetting their broken shelter

Her volunteer work wasn’t a job, zealous came her spout

These would grow not having the mirror as a playmate

 

When she sees the mirror, it silently waves, old friend

She caresses its dead cold silk

One day you will see through a laced exterior

My tears no longer shower your growth

 

A woman

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741