I, Pineata Poem by Imaanah Saleem

I, Pineata



I come—
In many forms,
Depending on the type of party,
And I have this—
Thing about me,
This—
swing,
Or swag,

Whatever,
hand wave,

That makes me inviting to almost every crowd.

Not saying I'm anything special.
I'm not.
I just simply hang out wherever I'm allowed.

Calm, Kool, and collective—
My figure—
Hi in the clouds—
My head—
Full of things I become way too involved in to stay focused on the outside world.

Someone calls my name,
Forcing me to look up.

I give them my attention for as long as they need,
Disliking that I have to.

My thoughts—
The ones I had been so involved in—
Those thoughts—
Has to be put on hold for something I view not nearly as important.

Quickly forgotten is the dilemma.
And suddenly colors are in my view.

Small figures of deliciousness, covered with dull wrapping paper,
Snickers, Twix,
Are in my view.

All the familiar treats I am used to indulging in are just here in my view;
So close,
yet so far away,
And although they are only figments of my imagination,
With them, I am content.

I sit leaned towards my right,
My elbow pressed into the arm rest of the chair,
My chin resting in my palm.

For me, this is the norm.
There are times when I am questioned about it—
My mood.

"I'm not sad"
I'd say,
"Or mad,
Just … thinking is all."

Here is when questions run deep,
The highlight of the show,
The time when many gather ‘round in wonderment,
Ready to grab what they can.

What I give is never enough.
They always want more,
More, and more.

They want all of my guts spilled—
All of it.

I refuse to give in.
My head is not an open book.
It's one more private,
Like the journal I spent time writing in as a kid;

Just for me.

I'm filled with many things:

Some sweet,
Some—
Not so sweet.

They've come to rob me.

I won't give in.
Even at the sight of their weapons, I refuse.
My skin is thick.
To get through, they'd have to beat,
Beat hard against it,
And still—

Did I not think that they will?
Lovers of me, who,
In the moment,
I take to be vicious,
Brutal,
Cruel …

They get what they want.

Friday, November 14, 2014
Topic(s) of this poem: art,thoughts
POET'S NOTES ABOUT THE POEM
My college professor wanted us to write a self portrait of me as an object. Well... Here it is.
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