6:13pm. Oct|26|2021
I’ve always fought with my body, occasionally. Never really understood it, it was quite inexplicable, and mostly strange. It is my body, but it felt like a stranger. It’s my body, but I didn’t understand it. Flesh, blood and bones, but it was unfamiliar.
You see, I’ve come to the realization that my body is a canvas, a piece for art to be made on, and trust me, it’s been beautified by Art, and not just beautified, it’s been marked, ruined – in an artistic and aesthetic way of course --, it’s been touched by art.
My body is a canvas, no longer is it a ghost or a stranger or an enigma, rather it’s a basis for Art, a surface Art is constantly made on.
I’ll tell you what my body is, it’s literature, it’s art, it’s a museum, it’s a library, it’s a home, it’s to song. My body is an embodiment of Art, pure aesthetics.
YOU ARE READING
Something Mending -- VOL 1
PoetryOf Breaking hearts, young love, betrayal and pain. Of Mending hearts, familiar pain, unexpected hurt and aftermath. Of Healing hearts, underated heartache, pain and acceptance. Of Love, Love that is as deep sea. Pain, that knows no bounds. Strength...
