Under My Skin—a prose poem

For day 3 of the WordPress Blogging University course, Writing 201, the prompt was   “Skin”. We were invited to write a prose poem, and as a poetic device, insert internal rhymes. This is very new territory for me!  I decided to do a piece about writing–what we bloggers do.  My prose poem attempt reflects recent realizations I’ve had about what can happen when you write and find yourself  pulled by internal tides and currents.  For me, blogging is becoming to be like an ocean exploration, with my grounded sense of self, as a life jacket, and a long rope attached to my blog profile as an anchor of sorts.

The following piece is by no means polished..but that’s one of the joys of blogging… there is no pressure to hide under a rock until you have a “perfect offering” (as Leonard Cohen would call it).


Under My Skin

Under my skin, under layers, hidden deep, lies raw compost–decomposing, TRANSFORMING.  Shame, secrets, passions, joys, sorrows, pain and memories–once sharply imposing–now in darkness reshaping; here to stay, nowhere to leap. Their destiny, to become soil, imagination’s dinner.

I protect my skin and treasure below, with clothes and social finery; etiquette and discretion,  likes and mentions, abide.  Bites are withheld, and smiles show pleasure. Fortune shines, as I count my blessings:  in my blogging nook, kindness is the guide.

Under the skin, within soft underbelly, and pulsing heart, lie many layers–like an onion they say: “peel them away”–GENTLY–there is much to gain: feast on flesh and cry tears of joy, pain, raw exposure…  Writing peels layers without intention. I step softly; there is no dare.  No need to parade like a naked Emperor.  I shield soft tissues that tune to slights and longings; that may ache when touched or seen; and I firmly hold the remote, that plays buried memories.

The depths, close and far, are strength and vulnerability. I’ll dig and explore, paint prose poems and poem proses–smear them with soil richness, even when not fully processed into crumbly brown. Writing has me in it, but it is not me.  It comes from me, but when released, no longer belongs to me alone.  Then it comes from me and you–from under our skin.

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