Pearl

The occasional sense that the most central part of ourselves is wrong

I am trying to fit inside myself.
Spider-silk-thin layers
conceal a jagged center,
the original irritant.

Mother-of-pearl
- deceptively titled spawn of discomfort-
muffles the shrieks of
the primal, razor-edged piece of
me.

You cannot hear the shrapnel at my core,
tearing at my flesh, screaming:

Look at me!
LOOK AT ME!
Tell me who I am!

Author's Note

I wrote this poem about a year and a half ago (it was about 5 times this long at the time) and decided to revise it today. I don't feel this way about myself anymore, but it seems only fair to give my younger self some of the words they were looking for. The first lines I came up with were the final 3, which is a poem of it's own that's lived in me for some time.

Reviews

[Robert Haigh]

We all have to find who and what we are in life. It takes some of us longer than others, and even then I think most of us still have a few unanswered questions.

[A Decent Playwright]

Definitely. Strange that we happened to evolve in such a way that a defined sense of identity has so much meaning for us, when most other creatures couldn't care less. Still, the journey is important. Thanks for reading.

[poetgurl]

This is really awesome! Love the feelings you are protraying. nicely written

[A Decent Playwright]

Thank you!