How do you think it would be,
to be like a man such as me?
Copper mane unkempt, unruly, distort,
from showers too long and sleep too short.
Eyes darting erratically, vibrant and blue,
sunken in purple pits, looking blackened and bruised.
A nose, big and red, once hit with a bat,
a maw full of teeth, yellowed, crooked and that.
A beard full and lush, fit for a king,
(one I should trim one evening...)
Betwixt my shoulders lies a beating heart
one which stirs for music, words and art,
one which constantly yearns for intimate love,
but is under command by the grey matter above.
A pair of lungs, tightly restricted by my bulk,
only shallow breaths for this lumbering hulk.
A stomach which craves food but often has too much,
always eyeing the last tasty chip from the bunch.
These arms, you see, are weak as can be,
yet often muster the strength to write poetry,
draw pictures, tap keyboards and click on the mouse,
the results of their handiwork strewn over the house.
A fine pair of legs, but not quite so,
for one has a limp, thanks to it's big toe.
Swollen and infected, bulky and inflamed,
never seen beyond the steel caps which hide it's shame.
Perhaps this is focusing more on the bad than the good,
but if you were me you would see why I would.
So now we reach the next part of the grind,
where we focus on the best part - my mind.
While the body is lacking, the mind is strong,
able to tell what's right and what's wrong.
Yet even so, it's clouded and crowded with things to be.
Worried, fears, ideas, dreams and memories.
Inside my skull is the brain of a writer,
words coming forth to make this world brighter.
From maths to art to psych, it does it all,
though it does tend to falter and fall;
one part always succumbing to fears and anxiety,
strangely familiar with but a smidge of variety.
And, of course, who could forget Ponies?
(Octavia is best! Just to inform all the bronies)
And so, from all that, I hope you can see,
in absolute vagueness, what it means to be me.
(c) 2013 M.Birchill