Labels

Aren't they heavy?

The iron coat we all wear.

A metallic, laborious gravity

inducing garment of safety,

of identity, feigned.

Each section

smithed with a label

either crafted for us,

or by us.

Isn’t it heavy?

I am a brother, I am a son,

a friend, a lover, an ex lover,

a creative, a romantic, a dreamer,

a procrastinator, an anxiously

attached empath, people pleasing

light step taker, in and out of work actor,

I don’t write poetry.

Is what I’d say but a year ago

because someone didn’t

like a poem I wrote. I am

not an artist. I cannot draw.

Mrs Tunworth told me so

when I was seven. And she

is a teacher. I dance like

a dad. I am a crier.

I am a homebody.

I don’t read enough.

I think I’m funny.

I’m bad with names.

I am bad at retaining information.

I am good.

I am bad.

Why not?

Just…

I am I am I am.

If I take off that metal coat,

will I not float? Or find

a new door or a way out

or a crack in the cement

or a new place with

a new face and a new way

of looking, feeling, being, doing?

Scary.

But light.

Me-shattering.,

But open.