microobession

I am alive. I am teeming with life and I strive to see life in every single stroke of hand and blink of an eye that I see, I strive to value every microcosm of every human being, down to the pavement I walk on, the pollution I breathe in and the death that it causes, and that it all stems from life. To wake up, to rub one's eyes, to think about the fact that you are constantly touching yourself. The feeling of your muscles stretched around your bones and your blood cells streaming through your veins like rivers, caused by the gravity of the beat of your own heart.

 

Movement. The most recognizable sign of life. The wind that blows the grass. A ripple in the water caused by the swishing of a jellyfish or the flipper of a scuba diver. Even in death there is life. As the blood flows from a fallen soldier and on to the ground, he along with his blood move rapidly from one life to the next. His essence is evaporated into the air, turned into carbon dioxide and distributed evenly throughout the air, adding to the life to come.

 

Life. It is everywhere. In every cell of everything that has ever been created by man, machine, or God. It is alive!! If I could tear apart every object, then every cell of every object, if I could see what protons and electrons are made of with my own two eyes and understand it all I would.

 

To watch a person’s eyes in the sunlight gleam with focus at the task at hand, how the pupils constrict, the eyebrows furrow, the lines on their face vary ever so slightly in perfect harmony, and how the onlooker sees all these motions at once and processes them. Go get your eyebrows done. Stare at the cosmetologists eyes. See how they focus. Mirame my friends, mirame.

 

And then to experience the opposite. Feel the course of your blood jump over river rapids when you know another human being has their eyes spread wide for yours. In truly loving and romanticizing another person, you find yourself wanting to be alive with them. To want to live with them. You should feel so honored to be loved. To have another person choose you to spend their breathes on. That they deemed you somehow more fitting to walk the earth with them at that very second in time than anyone else they have encountered. How does it feel to have your own life valued so deeply by another? How alive it feels to be so naked. And how alive it feels to be so hurt.

 

But how truly dead it feels to do the hurting.

 

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

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