Embody

I feel truth in my bones
at the base
of my being.
It boils in the marrow
and bends in the base pairs
of my DNA.
It dances in the vessels
that carry my heartbeat
along an ancient river
of brilliant blue blood.

But it’s only acknowledged
when it spills red
or black-and-white.

External validation.
Human interpretation.

Truth throbs on the tip of my tongue
every second of the day
but only once in a while
does it escape from my lips
onto the contrived soundwaves
projected through my breath.

I can see it in the patterns
branded on my fingertips,
though sometimes it feels like
I’m smothering those swirls
beneath the pounding of frantic keystrokes
desperate to transmit.

There is truth.
There is mind.
There is body
as conduit.

Serving 30 Years to Life

My body
is a prison
incarcerating
an innocent soul
suffocating
on the means of survival
imposed by this sick society.

And I don’t want it anymore.

I don’t want this skeleton.
I don’t want these muscles and organs that keep it together.
I’m tired of trying to keep it together.

I am so tired
of trying to find ways to cope
with an illness that has an obvious cure.

But they withhold it
and shove pills down my throat instead
so that my body stays alive
while my soul’s as good as dead.

Still, you can hear the agony
radiating from my eyes
and see the fever
emanating from my skin.

I am not this body.
I am not this prison.

I am the soul
withering within.

©2013, Stavroula Harissis