I wrote this poem on a whim the other day, after hearing some kids rating all of the women who walked past them at the store on a scale of one to ten and saying whether they were “fuckable” (I’m serious this has to be put down.) I definitely lost it. Probably for infinity. So my mind started whirring and out came this poem where I imagined that these kids were basically just stuck in this little bubble in the center of the world and their job was to rate people based on appearances and the whole idea of having a personality kind of went out the window. I’m sure that this concept will be expanded on in future poems, but I liked this one’s start. It sort of evolved as I was writing it to include any numerical statistic that people use to put other people in boxes, because I honestly hate all of it. We are not a grade point average. We are not a weight. We are not a rating. We are not the number of follows on our Twitter feeds, nor are we the number of views on our blog.
We are all independently amazing for reasons that some of us can’t seem to fathom. We are precious gems in a huge, vast ocean, waiting to be picked up. Not to be sold, not to be fetched for a price. We are to be cherished. Somewhere safe. Somewhere happy. That’s what I want for all of us. You are not a number, and if you have to be. If you force yourself into a numerical value, I will always see you as a perfect ten. No matter what. You are incredible. You are shining for all that you are. Don’t let the world try to dim that.
A Cave of Numbers
In the center of our universe, there is probably a cave.
A cave filled with slaves, with creatures counting numbers.
People put in groups to tame us.
To change us, into what they think we should become.
How much fun, if we could find that cave and blow it apart.
Our lives are not a value,
But rather, we are simply valued.
Beyond measure, beyond statistics and ratings.
Gold stars and hearts define our twitter mentions,
A One to Ten system won’t decide the sum of all our parts.
There is tension, in your bones. Across the muscles in your back.
The sides of you that you don’t show,
Like ghosts that hide inside the holes.
Your mind, like mine, is littered with them.
Little heads that bob up and down.
Yet we’re placed into a box with those that are like us.
Yet intrinsically, we are so different that our minds have
Completely different topography.
You and I are good friends, sure,
But we can’t be close because you’re a ten and I’m a four.
But the numbers that we boast, don’t make a difference
When we’re dead.
So why should we let them get into our heads?
The space is already stolen, by those ghosts that hold our memories.
The ones that we have chosen. The good, the bad, the broken.
The hearts that we put there ourselves.
That’s the key. The fact that we are the only ones who have a key ring.
So don’t let these ratings and percentages stop your soul from singing.
You are not a 54%, an F. Your writing is unconventional.
The only thing that is a 54% is the parts of you that are exceptional.
Like the rest of us, your soul and body are two different parts.
Both add together to be complete, not 100.
Your person is not a number. You are like fine art.