Hi folks, Here's a wee poem I wrote a few years ago, not long after my double ostomy surgery. I found it again a few weeks ago, so what the heck, I'm gonna post it up for you folks. I call it "A Free Spirit Up for Sale", hope you enjoy.
How can one become so broken
reduced to nothing but a token
of society.
Variety has been taken away
each day the same as the next day
a passenger on the road that was once my highway
"Party's over dude... catch ya later
we're cruising off now to chase our dreams it seems
on the flip side... spectator".
A child of despair unable to repair
the damage that's been done
a child on the run
disbelief
abusing drugs for relief.
"This non-conforming runaway
needs reforming right away
let's crush his soul for his own protection
allow his bowl to flow with rejection"
and resistance
for you failed to drown out the call
of the drums in the distance.
A free spirit up for sale
to any lover with a similar tale.
Let's not forget that life is dear
Just because we got no rear!!
We can still love and play
Thank you, God, for another day
I'll stand up straight, like a man
I'll show the world, oh yes I can
I will not whimper, never cry
If I fail, again I'll try
Life will test your very mettle
For second best I will not settle
I'll be the best that I can be
Others are watching, what will they see
Don't let them see that you'll give in
Remember always, who dares... wins!!
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Equally impressive superhero, and very motivating also, so I guess it looks like we got a poetry slam going down. Yay, take it easy, dude.
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Sweede,
That was a sweet poem. True & inspiring! Praise be to God.
I too had the same spirit inside me which made me stand up and show the world that I am not broken after my urostomy surgery at the age of 12.
Sounida
Getting Support in the Ostomy Community with LeeAnne Hayden | Hollister
Here we go :
On my belly the stoma
gently gurgles
going glug-glug.
I am alone and I enjoy
not being ashamed.
A few centimeters above
the navel my mother made me
I now have another opening on the world
related in some way or other
to the eyes and hands
of a surgeon
I know nothing about.
A flower on my stomach
born from the manure cooking inside.
Red
it sprouted on my skin
and it doesn't conceal
the kisses from its lips.
Fountain, walled-in spring, it splutters
and sometimes falls asleep at dawn.
I hate it I love it
il makes me different
maladjusted
it makes of me a fake
among the crowd :
seemingly alone, I have got company.
Secretely I wear
a red carnation
in the buttonhole of my belly.
Sur mon ventre la stomie
régurgite doucement
faisant glou-glou
Je suis seule
momentanément délivrée de ma honte.
du nombril (fil rompu entre moi et ma mère)
j'ai maintenant une autre ouverture sur le monde
reliée d'une manière ou de l'autre
aux yeux et aux mains
d'un chirurgien
dont je ne sais rien.
Une fleur sur mon ventre
née de la déliquescence qui bouillonne au-dedans.
Rouge
elle a éclos sur ma peau
et ne dissimule pas le baiser de ses lèvres.
Fontaine murée elle gargouille dans la nuit
et s'endort parfois
sur les notes silencieuses de l'aurore.
Je l'aime je la hais.
Elle me rend différente
dépareillée.
elle fait de moi une tricheuse
au milieu de la foule.
Apparemment seule
j'ai de la compagnie :
je porte un  oeillet rouge
à la cicatrice de ma vie.
Seede, I loved your poem.
Super-hero, yours is a plea for life and optimism.
Wow!! That is an excellent poem, Ximena, very delicate. It made me smile and frown, and brought sorrow in the sweetest possible way. I really, really love it.
You have a real talent there (that only the French have, lol). x
And Southina, thanks for the comment. The drums are heard by us all; it only takes the courage to follow the sound. Some fear rejection if they dance to the beat, but they are our sounds and our beat also. The fear of rejection is in us all. If you keep dancing, others will follow, and the stigma of rejection is no more. x
I, Sweede, thank you for your appreciation.
Well, I'm determined to keep dancing and listening to the drums!
Fear of rejection, yes, I guess you can't escape that altogether, but my way to overcome it is to think of myself first as an artist, a writer, a woman who likes to meet people, to travel, to enjoy life, and who, incidentally, wears a bag... and not as an ostomate who remains hidden in her lair like a wounded beast!
Jo.
I imagine most of us have felt like that many times post-op, Eddie. Thanks for sharing your honesty.
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Thanks, honesty is my best and worst trait.
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You sound fairly open yourself; it takes self-honesty to write as you do, and you write well.
Eddie