Up in Arms


My lips can say that I am not broken, or damaged,
that I am not unworthy, or offal, but,
my mind, enraged, accuses me, wholly
of simply not being not enough.
And I believe it. I make it real-
real enough to feel it, see it
in this reflection I do not recognize
as my eyes filter nothing but lies,
never fully focusing on the light.

So, never could I perceive the truth,
discern the goodness in myself,
appreciate the goodness in even you.
I do not fight it; I submit to my mind-
fear you like I fear the new day’s light,
for it will reveal truth I do not,
and should not ever know,
because it is far too good for me,
and of it I will never be deserving.

My soul sells my mind lies like wine,
and my heart gulps them down
like every bottle is but one line
that I must commit to memory,
be reminded of at all times,
lest I forget how completely unworthy
of happiness is this heart of mine.
Like I should be ashamed to ever smile,
never find success in my voice’s rhyme.

This heart grows softer in beat,
my mouth can find no words to speak
against this ego’s superiority.
It is edgy, sews fear into each seam,
and every stitch, a painful reminder
of how detestable an existence I keep
should I continue to act so freely-
such a careless act to take such bold steps,
to proudly, eagerly accept recognition
or acceptance in the smiles from those
considerably more achieved than me.

When the mind can suppress the heart,
break down its mold into mere dust.
When it causes the lips to tremble in fear-
never knowing how to improve upon
this tragic existence, to make amends.
And if it never suggests a way to improve,
what is a body at complete odds to do?

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