Sometimes my skin
feels like it's made of wind
Nothing but breeze and breathes
It never stays together, no
It swirls and flows, rising up
until it's gotten out into the morning sun
Sometimes it spreads too far
letting my heart spill
right onto the bathroom counter
It's made of whispers and memories
intertwining to make currents and shields
But a neatly placed hand will gentle the zephyr
letting steam leak and mist up the room
I've met those made of rock and stone or glass
It takes a hammer, axe, or stone to get passed
Some marvel at the illusive air
while others know it's simple, and rather fair
But without a hammer, axe, or stone
my steam can never easily flow
Sometimes, I find myself wishing that
my skin was made of trunk instead
But until the day comes where
roots will come to grow and bend
I'll be patient for the hand
to rest itself on my skin once again
-July 7th, 2026
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Comments1
Sensual this poem uses metaphor well in its description and uses images well. Nicely done
I’ve noticed you’ve been commenting on my poetry ever since I started posting. Thank you; it does mean a lot and you’re very encouraging!
You are most welcome it is my pleasure
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