Identity is a broken hinge on which
The closet door of self hangsâ€”
The loose screws gasping to hang on
Exhausted sheet rock shredding,
Lost in a memory of its former self.
A cry out! Ayyy me!Â OH the
Agony of being asked to
To move something else, oh the
Peril of losing oneâ€™s grip entirely.
Material inflexible, crafted to be fixed
Yet mechanical. Value in
Identity is a broken hinge
Holding up the closet door of
Self; unaware of its own
Patent inscribed, its own
One who once hunched over a
Workbench and reveled in
This bronze beauty.
Todayâ€™s #napowrimo prompt: Today, we challenge you to write a poem that is about something abstract â€“ perhaps an ideal like â€œbeautyâ€ or â€œjustice,â€ but which discusses or describes that abstraction in the form of relentlessly concrete nouns.