Like most writers I have an abundance of old poetry hidden away in the depths of my computer files. Admittedly plenty of it is awful, we're talking teen angst with the barest semblance of rhyme & meter, but not all my poetry was written in my teen days, (Though a fair bit of it is still angsty... well really when do most of us turn to writing poems?) and occasionally I actually stumble across a rare gem in amongst the rubble of my emotional outpourings. I promised to post some written art in addition to all the visual stuff, so this oldie is my first entry in the written word category.
The Civil Suit
Uncover, unclothe, disrobe me,
For I am not what I appear to be.
Dressed well inside this tailored suit
I know you cannot see me.
Head held high, I strut around.
Through the shrieks, I stand my ground,
And all the while inside this garb,
I’m shrinking, fading, dying.
This suit mask all the under-scuffs,
So you’ll never hear the screaming.
Yes you’ll see the collar and the cuffs,
And never what they’re covering.
Who wears this suit? You’ll wonder.
Its cut so fine and neatly clinging,
Must be someone of high-standing.
Someone with manners as impeccable
As they’re status is demanding.
Such good fortune have I the wearer,
Knowing you’ll never see me bare,
For inside this handsome garment
A wretched child is living there.
She’s all the things you think I’m not
Those parts you’ll never know.
She’s scathing, fierce, and wild
And runs, through places you fear to go.
Stamping her bare feet she curses,
Mouth so foul, she’d tint you green
And she longs to cause destruction
The likes of which you’ve never seen.
But I’ve known her and I see her,
And I tame her in this suit,
Whilst seeing me you admire, and say
“Oh that suit… It’s such a beaut!”
So I shake your hand and smile
Thanking you, despite my knowing
The suit is so much more than this,
All the things it keeps from showing,
That beneath the cut of my civility,
Glaring out, is that angry child.
And if I don’t keep you talking
There’s a chance you’ll hear her hissing.