The cushion critic : The System

We are all part of a system,
a system that works like clockwork,
it never seizes or rests
aloof with the world it runs.
And we all have fooled ourselves
into thinking we are it's crucial parts,
that we belong somewhere
and that we operate it with our choices.
But the reality escapes us
like water between our fingers,
even though we are drenched in it
we will never hold it or control it.
The system is omniscient
our potential is its fuel
and we feed it religiously
following it like a rag picker's dog.
Forgotten among the created chaos
trusting the one standing beside us.  

Marrying and reproducing,
killing and fighting,
raping and violating,
hoarding and gloating,
thinking the lever turns only one way
frightened by the thought of indifference,
but not towards our souls
but the steady chunky cogs
the one that runs our hands and feet
afraid to break free from it teeth,
terrified that it might break the system,
lead to a total collapse of the pyramid
in which we are just the lowest pawns,
but it's just an illusion created by us.
You are just a tiny insignificant nut
who has the power to loosen its talons, 
the power to bring its downfall,
to run free and create your own chaos
a beautiful one, a changeable one
the one without levers and pulleys
or the puppeteers strings,
a kind that transforms at our will.
Unscrew yourself from the system
find freedom, passion and vigour,
unlock the energy inside your soul
before the system takes its toll.

Bitch

This morning I looked at myself in the mirror

and I saw what had changed about me
nothing really on the outside, but the idea of me.
how I was perceived by everyone,
how they thought, one act could separate me from their idea of good
or how my transition would have a long lasting effect of what my life should be.
In their world I was known to be obnoxious,
roaming around the corridors pretending to own them;
talking long, my words coming out like paper from printing press
and as I looked long and hard I realized their idea of an ideal Bitch was staring back at me.
Since I was a kid my mother told me I had the potential,
my casual ways would lead to tough decisions
and now I find myself not knowing who I am
the right from the wrong, the wrong from the right.
The side glances and the hushed whispers were as loud as my thoughts,
a girl whose world was a perfect one in their minds
their stares searing through my soul, judging me like I was some con.
I had something glamorous up my ass they said
'Fabulous' I thought of myself in every 'selfie' I snapped,

so now the idea of a person is judged by what they show,
not what lies deep beneath their skins and in their souls
'oh! so you are her!' they said amused, analyzing my sleeveless shirt
that truly hid the wounds and scars of the stories of my life
'now we know why' their thoughts could be heard from a mile out
But I never really understood what the big deal was about.
So that morning I looked in the mirror and I smiled to myself,
let them think what they want because either way they were  obsessed with me.

A Thing

I am an old thing, an antique,
I was wrapped up in plastic
and defiled by all the punching holes and the moving. 

In secret I was unwrapped
and wrapped back again, and again and again and again
till the fresh plastic was old and dirty
and my grains were weathered and rusty
with rough and old hands,
that loved more and cared less.
With greed and jealousy I changed,
the plastic stretched and was never the same,
but the demand was high and the expectations were low,
and finally the plastic fell off till I was bare for the world to scoff.
Repaired and retouched, I was new again
yet I had seen what I shouldn't have,
yet I had felt so much more than I should have felt,
but now I am new and the old stories sealed underneath .

So now the fresh paint won't come off so easily,

now I am hard as a rock and strong as a storm, 

I am alone but I don't need my old friend,

the plastic has gone somewhere to be burnt, 

now I am here for the world to see,

after all I am just an old wise thing.