Making Poems Out of Me
A free-verse poem
They make poems out of me.⠀
All ripped of its soul, the elements that design my very being.⠀
⠀
Humility smeared gently on my skin.⠀
Pretense, of happiness and plastic smiles, cocooned in the amygdala of my brain.⠀
Rage, pertaining to dreams unfulfilled, that’s found a home in my eyes.⠀
Passion (for writing), like oxygen, I inhale and exhale fiercely.⠀
Sunshine, applied like talcum powder, on my acne-replete cheeks.⠀
A soulful melody that hangs in the creases of my lips, speaking of heartbreaks.⠀
Unexpressed love caught in my larynx, in fear of turning into unrequited.⠀
Motherhood, the truest form of love, nestled between my breasts.⠀
Hunger, seeking my soulmate, swirling at the pit of my stomach.⠀
Thirst for the passionate love, deserved by my jewel encased in prepuce.⠀
Pressure and burden, hidden subtly inside my soles, fighting for the faraway freedom.⠀
⠀
They make poems out of me.⠀
Never understanding the emotions that sculpted me.⠀
⠀
They make poems out of me.⠀
All judgments, no truth.⠀
©Kavya Janani. U
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