I am invisible An illusion projected to the world and the mirror. My physical will forever be reductive. My emotional, intellectual, and spiritual are never percieved properly by anyone but myself. But- I didn't even see myself until two transformations ago. I question my existence every time the clock ticks. I am invisible. You who read my words and witness my blood boil and burst- erupting out of my soul- know me better than those who see my physical or speak my name daily. Still, I am invisible. My trauma dissolves into poetry- raw, but condensed because the real words- the real me- the unfiltered mess- would tick away at too much of my time and leave a bitter taste behind. My poems penetrate few, but in the scheme of things my trauma is another tick-mark tally-mark tick-tock statistic to color in a bar graph on a projector. I'm on the graph, I'm in the stats, but not seen as we tick on to the next slide. I am invisible. You see the graph and aknowledge the numbers and sigh as the clock tick tocks and another survivor suffers the same and may never be saved by anyone but herself because justice is a myth for us poets. We begrudgingly adapt. The more I write, or speak, or tweet, or tik-tok, do I become more visible? If I turn up the volume a few ticks will you unfollow? Block? Because I'm loud and inconvinient and a little too much because isn't it time I move on already? Tick-tock! Not on your watch. Roll your eyes; it's always drama with me- you'd never bring that on yourself. It's always the negative with me- you like to look at the bright side. Ignorance is sunshine sugar sweet bliss fluttering above a steaming pile of sickening sewage. Out of sight, out of mind. "It doesn't fit," "the vibes are off," Look at the clock! The garbage is spreading slowly with every tick and tock. Light a candle to cover up the stench and all is well again- thank goodness! But the clock- tick tock... Invisible is my story and hers and hers and hers and his and theirs and ours and mother earth's. Open your eyes to a world outside of your physical- your illusion- and you will see why I scream to be seen.
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Eternal Metamorphosis 