Skin

What contains us and protects us,

It is our armor and prison cell,

We can take it to far away places,

Or retreat indoors to which we dwell.

 

With confetti freckles,

It covers your nose,

It stretches over your spine,

To give you a pose.

 

Our skin is a color spectrum,

It can be smooth like a rose,

It can be crinkled like paper,

It can be white as winter snows.

 

We use it to touch and motion,

To sense and to feel,

It gives us goose bumps,

And scars to conceal.

 

A moster has different skin,

Hers has pearly stretch marks,

The scars of giving birth,

Like sprays of the welder’s sparks.

 

The elderly have creases,

And crinkles and canyons,

Thin skin like tissue paper,

Each in memory of past companions.

 

Birth marks and scar,

Freckles and spots,

Wrinkles and bumps,

We all have lots.

 
This poem is about: 
Our world

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