Let Your Body Speak

As I stand—accused and adored, derided and divine—

I command the stage I built for my own becoming,

and direct the best I have to give—

for you to immortalise, to give legacy

to the humble and honest, the haughty and hubristic.

I hope for a day—spring, autumn, maybe even winter—

dedicated to me, my work.

I am your master, your saviour, your hero,

the one you desire—

whose words you hang on every syllable.

On the back:

“You can sift through the shards of broken glass and grains of broken enterprise,

but sometimes letting go is the only safe escape from being pulled down with it.”

On the front:

“It’s the little things—the insignificant,

in the face of all I, we see—

that steal me from the pull of the unforgiving nothingness.”

On the right:

“There is a difference, a difference you should know,

betwixt intelligence and wisdom.”

On the left:

“There is a difference, a difference you should know,

betwixt having opinions and sharing them.”

The thighs:

“When the weight of the words I’d rather write than speak

are too much to bear, even after they’re free—I digress.”

“Remember, we are not Pablo Picasso.

He could walk anywhere, stare at anyone—

but Pablo Picasso was never called an asshole.”

“A touch of love can cut through resounding self-loathing,

feather-down-soft like Egyptian cotton of the finest quality.”

On the chest:

“Silence always precedes—everything.”

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