Poetry Reading – “A Dedication”

This is a piece I have been meaning to record for the longest time, and in fact have been reading at open mics for some time but never actually recorded, as noted below in the original post.

This piece was written for spoken word, one of only a few with such intent, though I hope to have more eventually.


“A Dedication” – Recorded 12/23/2020 – Auroraboros – Objects, and the Distance Between Them

The original piece is below for reference, and can be found in its entirety at https://objectsanddistance.com/2018/03/27/a-dedication/


Note: This piece is intended to be read as spoken word. I actually did something very significant for me in that I read it out loud at my first open mic night several nights ago…

I was not planning to post this, as I usually only post “fresh” content, but I was inspired by a fellow writer, Kaurv (http://kaurv.wordpress.com), and a lovely reading of Mary Elizabeth Fry’s Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep that Kaurv had posted as a video (https://wp.me/p7F0ar-M).

So, here is “A dedication”.

This was originally dedicated to “anyone who could use a reminder of who they are – who may have been told something different along the way, or simply lost track and could use a little help getting back”.

It has evolved since though, and is dedicated to anyone, to those who are lost as well as those who have reached out and taken firm hold of their life and their influence on others. To all the Kaurvs who put themselves out there in the world, despite apprehension, and in doing so, serve as a shining light to others.


You are beautiful.
Let me say that again:
You are f***ing beautiful.
I know you know this; my saying it does not validate that notion – only you can do that. Just as my, or anybody else’s, silence cannot – should not – de-validate you even in the slightest, because you cannot expire, you cannot be told you are not good enough, you cannot be made to feel like anything less than a queen or a king, a prince or a princess whichever suites you – the world bows when you walk past and if they don’t it is their loss.

You are priceless…
You cannot – should not – be bought and sold, though there are some out there who will see you as a “pretty thing” or a “precious thing” and tell you they know your worth, they will write a number down on a piece of paper, look you right in the eye, and slide it coyly across the table as you cross your legs and bite your lip ever so slightly, as you mentally weigh the difference between homeless and without a place to stay, alone and lonely, hopeless and beyond all hope… as you breathe… in… and out… Slow down…
I’m not done.
They will use that number as a sum of your parts; oh, those parts, it’s all they will think about and it’s all they will talk about and if they could cut them off and hang them from rusty hooks in the window with a price tag dangling down for all the world to see you know they would.
Never trust anyone who calls you a “thing” or makes you feel like one…
You are not a thing. You are so much more… So much more than any of them will ever understand, so much more than they will ever hold between their greasy fingers or can even calculate in their minute-by-minute brains, heads full of your parts but empty just the same, wild but tame, unable to understand what those parts add up to without numbers, seeing only a face but not a name.

You are… so vulnerable.
Whether you like it or not, whether you wear that paper mask with the jagged lines and bright colors intended to scare them away but at the same time masterfully crafted as such to possibly, maybe, draw attention to something other than your chest or your ass or that soft warm spot between your legs…

You have been hurt.
And if you have not yet, truth be told, you will be. This world is a beautiful place, full of life and love and opportunity but it is also ugly as hell, bitter as well, cold and empty at times, tiger teeth on gazelle, ready to pounce when you turn your back, and you cannot face all directions at once…
There will be those who stand at your side, friends ’til you die, but as soon as they get a chance they will pivot and slide and you will feel their knife-their teeth-their nails sink in… now listen… they can hurt but they will never defeat you-they can never win, so long as you don’t let them under your skin…

You are resilient.
You are a being that lives in the present and those who hurt you or want to hurt you have no place in your present; they belong only in your past, a memory – and know that these kinds of memories should serve as windows, not doors – windows that only go one-way, windows that gives you sight and agency but strip them of any power they once thought they had. Windows to help you remember only when you want to, only when you are ready to look back and laugh at how short-sighted and ignorant they were when they chose to face off against you, to hurt someone with so much power as they peer helpless with their palms against the glass and a pathetic puppy dog look on their tired face. Let them remain…

You are a masterpiece.
You are the culmination of thousands of years of natural selection and fierce battle for survival amongst bitter enemies and childhood rivals and friends and family alike, old news and new arrivals…
Blood stains your soft, smooth hands but I could care less because it runs fresh on mine and when we clasp our palms together our streams collect beneath in a pool shimmering like oil and good lord, it brings tears to my eyes.
You are Starry Night and Mona Lisa and the whole goddamn louvre walking and talking and smiling and laughing and in doing so leaving a work of art in the hearts of every living being you meet, a stamp, a signature carved and indelible, irreplaceable and yet irretrievable.
You were in the eyes of every painter who ever put brush to canvas, the mind of every poet who ever wrote down line after line on stone-on reed-on slate-on paper-on a blinking LED screen late at night with a cigarette dangling from their mouth as they frantically sought to capture what they know is there but cannot quite…
You were pulsing through the hands of every sculptor, every mason, every welder, every glass blower and fusion artist, every back-yard chainsaw hole-in-the-wall junkie f*** carving out their rendition of what they think you are…
Think… you are… Because they do not know you. Only you can know you. Though, I will not lie, I’d love to try… To see inside that mind, to see behind those eyes so full of color and passion and life, curiosity for what lies on the other side, for what comes next is just a continuation of the previous line but it is unique in that you wrote it yourself its yours, not mine…

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