Poetically Incorrect

Poetically
I’m incorrect, tyrannosaurus
too big to
follow in
the footsteps of
most elegant creatures.

I’m clumsier than drunks in
a hummingbird’s presence.

Sometimes beautiful
things are
not gifted with the
softest features,

and it’s somehow easier to make outcasts of oblong shapes, second-rate citizens occupying disproportionate photograph frames. I don’t know. My mother always told me never judge a book by its cover so I see

ranking too
low on society’s meter of
what passes for beauty as
an advantage, the panic
of eternal youth as
a laminate for
cruelty.

All I know is
from the moment I
picked up this pen to
the exact
hour of my death,

I won’t be remembered for
how I
ranked in
social contests but
how tomes of my observations
on them
read.

I don’t condemn the
practice. I’m just a
scientist of
similes,
passive spectator,
a redacted contestant,

poetically incorrect,
metaphorically
obese.

Yet I’ve learned to
love myself
for
the best
person I can
be.

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5 thoughts on “Poetically Incorrect

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