Poem: This Skin Itches

Poem: This Skin Itches

Alexander Maxwell


This skin itches; these clothes, shoes
Entangled, full of stitches
An imposter, a fake, a fraud
Deceived, detested; tormented

Desperately seeking a sign, a lamp
A displaced postcard requiring a stamp
Blindly stumbling in the dark
Concealed, confused, crushed, stark

Who am I supposed to be?
Unable to imitate my soul, my journey; me

Son to my father and mother; brother
Human, worker, slave; other
Morally correct, culturally sound
Entwined in grief; heaved hell bound

Don’t look, don’t walk, don’t run
Listen, don’t listen, don’t, don’t, don’t
Have any fun

Or what a savage resembled
Uncontrolled, demented, fearless
Or rather like you disassembled
Keeping step with subjective-ness

Breathe do what you told
So long as you do not grow bold.

Is infallibility so potent?
Its intolerable to exist content,
Content with the steps which I pen –
May not descend upon your perceived dead end

The echo in the mirror, it’s not me
But my learned imitation of you,
The flaws I posess, which you shamelessly detest
Are not mine but yours, I do confess


Listen below to Alex reading This Skin Itches –

Copyright Alexander Maxwell 2015
Alexander Maxwell