This skin, which holds me in,
creates a water-proof barrier between us.
Here I end.  (full-stop)  (capital letter)  There you begin.
No overlap, no bleeding into you, no dissolving one into another.

This skin, which holds me in,
defines me like an afghan over an old sofa, preventing you from seeing my innards —
— heart rapping on a marimba ribcage,
— blood racing vascular streets until it hits capillary traffic jams and takes a roundabout home,
— lungs filling like a cluster of raisins plumping with juice only to deflate into wrinkled dryness seconds later.

This skin, which holds me in,
hosts an intricate web of lacy nerves which constantly inform me of outer spacial conditions
(hot, cold, soft, prickly, smooth, rough, moist, dry)
and allow me  (in the middle of nightmare darkness) to find you and feel your comforting arms surround me in warm safety.

This skin, which holds me in,
is  T H I C K , well covered with age-acquired calluses.
My first defence against bad bacteria, vigilant viruses and nasty names thrown at me by mean menschen,
like Superman, the bullets bounce right off this skin.
Sometimes.

 

 

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Writing 201: Poetry
Assignment — Day 3:

Prompt: SKIN
Form:  Prose Poem
Device: Internal Rhyme

A prose poem is any piece of verse written using the normal typography of prose, while style maintaining elements of poetry, like rhythm, imagery, etc.  A prose poem, by definition, has no fixed rules. Internal rhyme adds a level of sonic complexity and playfulness without calling too much attention to itself the way end rhymes do.

I had fun with SKIN!  Seems once I started I just wanted to go on and on.  Part of this is because I love the freedom of prose (and I am so darned ‘wordy’).  But mostly because skin is such an amazing thing!  I am rather attached to mine.    🙂    (Did I just hear you groan?)

 

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