Poetry

Man is shaped by what everyone wants, but never into what he wants to be

Man is appalled by another man,
when exposed to the disgust of his existence.
Where there is no parable and we’re all just dots
at an intangible distance,
too close to each other,
touching,
but we don’t make a difference,
we only impede vision.
Too similar to each other, dark and small,
we don’t belong to ourselves,
we don’t belong to others.

But a man could never have guessed
that this body would be such a burden,
though it’s only a sign of punctuation,
the subject of many tragedies
and the inevitable part of hyperbole.

The body’s being taxidermied
every time it surrenders
to an animal inside,
to the sin,
to another man,
to himself,
or to the fear.
To God,
to the fornication,
the opposite,
to the disgust.

He never knew his existence would
be an eternal sacrifice
between war zones,
or conflict inside homes.
Isn’t the body at war with itself?

He never knew that the body
given to him is going to be a burden.
He didn’t choose to live inside it.
The body suddenly became subordinated
to meat and bone whips,
to the collective mass of sadists,
camouflaged into what’s called humanity.

Man is shaped by what everyone wants,
but never into what he wants to be.
How difficult it is to be whole in the world
constantly on a mission,
being separated, choosing just the parts of you,
but never the whole you.

Organs are cramping in the body,
they shrink and attach to dead tissue,
and every bone-cracking
reassembles of another day
wasted in a body not chosen by man.
One by one,
the bones roll upside down,
and they pierce and destroy
a body that weighs more than reality.
Every day’s contradiction,
mockery and inverse proportion.

That body has mastered the skill
that it isn’t enough on its own,
and to multiply itself to satisfy the world.
To be objectified and put up for sale.
Sometimes it’s not even considered human,
as long as, and only if the blood in the veins
doesn’t flow in rhythm with the heart crying blood.

Who can own a man,
in all its absoluteness,
and never feels the right
to say they own it?
The world certainly didn’t succeed doing that,
though it’s holding him,
the prisoner among all the other servants.

He never knew the good deeds
will be the chains that prevent him from being free.
He didn’t know that, in this scenario,
he’s a villain who tears the world apart,
but only to himself.

It can be said that man’s punishment will be
be a daily ritual.
He saw all the monsters in his life,
so he will be the monster itself,
what’s new?
He’ll be good enough for the next lover
who will dig their way up,
into that fragile, weak, invisible body.
Broken enough for himself,
not allowing to be whole.

He knew for a long time that his body
was just another pit stop,
for greed, distraction, giving,
but never receiving.

How to define exploitation in the best way possible?
Isn’t it enough remembering when people
said they would love you
because of who you are,
but never because of what you aren’t?

And look at you now,
what you’ve become after the burden knocked you down,
you don’t know which organ in your body is for,
You’re distorted and reduced,
but never larger while you push
your tongue through the mirror,
and the shards of the porcelain frame pull it in,
so you laugh with a broken jaw.

The world is so fast and slimy,
like chrome jaws of a bear trap,
desperate to grab and hold you.

And one day you’ll discover the mystery
of your existence,
in the skin, you live in,
but today you’re only discovering
cramping tongue and your own set of iron jaws.

But what did you expect?
You knew you were an exploiter
long before the world exploited your body.

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