Original spoken word poetry about feeling out of place.

THE CANVAS WEEPS

Is what I am doing selfish?
Is that why I feel alone?
Surrounded by understanding faces.
Making carefully considered spaces.
For them, not me, the different one.

Slowly extracting me from them,
Through the label of assurity.
They call it inclusion.
Yet, I feel an intrusion.
Into their normality.
A juxtaposition of morality.

Some think it a triviality.
Some call it, losing my marbles.
Some call it, tolerance and understanding.
Some use transphobic language,
A lexicon, created for people like me.
A gift, from the world,
Thank you so much for describing me.

Another form of labelling.
An abstraction of a human painting.
Framed within an open prison.
Solitary. Alone. Disconnected.
Surrounded by walls of solidarity.

I am, for the world to see, a moment in time.
Stillness captured, but I am, and always will be, me.
A dichotomy. So, I smile, and I wonder.
If they will ever see, the love between the layers of me.

They do look on with appreciation.
For the sacrifice they make in the name of we.
But I am no more than a blend of their tones.
Artwork for its colour than meaning.
Sporadically put on show, placed prominently,
Then veiled and left to gather dust.
Just inside the glance of passing feet.
But just outside the reach of a heartbeat.

So, dust it is, my only friend.
A unique perspective.
A beautiful never.
A lost forever.
A sealed window to a selfish me.
And there, right there, amongst the dust.
The colours fade.

As the years pass,
The frame gently splinters.
And over many, many, winters.
The dust keeps,
And the canvas weeps.

(c) Jay Rose Ana

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