Mon, 11/02/2015 - 11:37 -- gabsi13

A piece of clay on the molding board

Constructed by the hands of an artist and teacher

Purpled by inky fingers

I spin in a whirlwind as the wheel rotates

Unsure of myself and my capabilities

Dizzy by the speed with which life circulates past

Carved by the morals of tools, preachings.


Losing my pieces, pulled apart

By the pecking of the hurtful words

They are the knives upon my skin

Carving away the aspects of myself

Peeling away what is not liked

Thrown down and danced upon

Left to be restored by the tenderness

Of those closest to me.


At times my center is hidden

At times, open, displayed for the world

A naked embarrassment of my flaws

A reminder

We cannot hide everything.


When the whirling slows

The caresses are that of angels

Finalizing their product

But caresses can be sharp

The irony is that similar to a Catholic Bisexual

Where does that derision lie?


But as I am baked

Burned into myself

Branded by the labeling of strangers

The environment changes

And I stay the same

Formed by those around me.

This poem is about: 
My family
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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