deepundergroundpoetry.com
My temple
The scars littering my darken skin shows me reminds me that in the end i have won.
I have won the gift of life, the gift of breath that fills my chest with the warmth of another day.
My memories are the history coded as images along my temple walls they show of the storms since pasted and those who threaten my horizon.
My temple walls are not made of the purest gold, they do not hold diamonds, they are dull almost colorless as to keep me within the sane mentality of societies "golden girl".
This temple is f**king perfect, perfectly sound, perfectly me.
I have won the gift of life, the gift of breath that fills my chest with the warmth of another day.
My memories are the history coded as images along my temple walls they show of the storms since pasted and those who threaten my horizon.
My temple walls are not made of the purest gold, they do not hold diamonds, they are dull almost colorless as to keep me within the sane mentality of societies "golden girl".
This temple is f**king perfect, perfectly sound, perfectly me.
Published 8th Jun 2013
| Edited 22nd May 2014
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15th Jul 2013 10:02pm
Is your "temple" really a temple, all of the things about you you mention? Very nice poem, very sensitive and filled with feeling. But I sense (you don't say so) a kind of search going on at the same time. Perhaps it's a search for the "real" you. Is that correct? Good write.
marcella1
marcella1
25th Jul 2013 7:15pm
