My Pain Poem
Part 1: Who am I?
Who am I?
I am nobody
But I have form that needs feeding
So I pretend to be somebody
But I know not who
Always afraid that my impostorous nature
Will be revealed for what it is
In the absence of knowing who I am
Who I am not, becomes who I am
Like a photographic negative
My colours inverted
My lightness obscured
And my darkness revealed
I am an amorphous blob
Like sculptors clay
Waiting to be formed
Into beauty and brilliance
Beheld and adored
Alive with potential
But discarded without form
I am no sculptor
Maybe others can tell me
That which eludes me
To know myself
Through the eyes of others
And yet, all others see
Is the me that happens by accident
Without authenticity, without joy
Seen, but not seen
Hidden in plain sight
Alone in my anguish
And never more lonely
Than with others around me
Part 2: Who I am!
The sculptors clay looks at me
From the deepest recesses of my psyche
How many times have I reached for it
Only to be disappointed with what I make
And return it from where it came
And yet work on it again I must
Again and again and again
With sculpting knife in hand
I work the clay with familiar strokes
Working to reveal my David
As I get closer to completion
I become more and more deflated
I see faults, mistakes and failures
I hate it, I am no sculptor
Dejected I pack the clay around my David
And I hope not to see it again
The sculptors clay looks at me
I know that my David lies deep inside
My nemesis, trapped and restrained
Yet I feel duty bound to reveal him
This is my purpose or so I am told
"Maybe it's not your sculpting
But your subject that is the problem"
A voice in my head proclaims
But that cannot be so
I am here to sculpt my David
Reluctantly, sceptically and with trepidation a plenty
I bring out my clay and start sculpting
My Venus Di Milo
It took time, the strokes were unfamiliar
But as my Venus revealed, my heart began to soar
Perfect, she wasn't, but she was beautiful and brilliant