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Laynee Armstrong Poem
Differences are born in skin, blood, pride, and envy
Each scratch upon the artist’s page
Each flaw etched in black
Each scream plotted in every line
Anyone is allowed to create
So why must we create such ugly things?
Torn and stitched
Flayed and taped
Nothing made whole or complete
But recycled from garbage
Made to look human
Drawn with non-dominant hands
Messy collections of flesh and hatred
Am I truly nothing more than how others have made me?
Finding recycled parts of ourselves in others
Reminded of how beautiful we could have been
How gorgeous the world could have built us
Yet, rotting away in a shell of borrowed sins
Smiles plastered on like paper-mache
Like a doll modeled to fit aesthetics
Stuck high on a dusty shelf,
I sit with limbs stiff and empty
Waiting for the day my creator gifts me my own share
Of skin and blood
Copyright © Laynee Armstrong | Year Posted 2022
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Details |
Laynee Armstrong Poem
Who put Lubella in the wych elm?
Wrangled roots and writhing barks,
Little blue shoes and fine black strands.
Was it the witch or the wych?
A flash of red, simmering musks,
An era of tragedy thriving.
A flesh tinged with a subtle darkness,
Hardened with resolve.
Blackened tongues convey sickened truths.
Convenient stretches of white lace
draped across a tarnished stone statue.
Which statue?
Bella is stuck in the wych’s elm,
A broken connection coated in useless filth.
A promise given to none who truly want it,
Yet gifted freely to those undeserving.
Fragile gloves and mangled dresses,
Crystal skies reflecting grey plumes.
Who’s tattered hearts inflicted a wych’s misery?
Fate’s subtle creaks or Mother’s wicked tears;
A concentration of grief or a dispersal of faith?
How did Bella end up in the Wych’s Elm?
Who put Lubella in the Wych’s elm?
Copyright © Laynee Armstrong | Year Posted 2022
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