From what I have observed of shame, it has a taste.
Metallic, subtle, sulphurously hiding underneath
one’s gritted teeth, it cloaks itself in sugar-coated
candyflossedish vain houdiniesque derangerous
escapological decay. For people run from shame as if
it was a guillotine or other similarly end-it-all device.
But shame exists to be a springboard for a plunge
into a deeper clearer sea where darkness (for that’s
the state preceding the conditions which prevailed
before the shame) can yield politely to virginity.
If I am (man or woman) fat through my own folly,
or through shameless greed (whereby to feed myself
became a way of stuffing up my face and puffing up
my empty soul which only food could render whole),
then I should rightly be ashamed to see my inner self
so fallen & abusive of my gift of life and talents, health
(& by the way, I couldn’t give a flying fuck for wealth!).
For if I undertake no care for me and fail to take
responsibility to shine as an example of a shaft of light,
then how will others take me seriously when I campaign
for what is right and true? For it was only through the
salve-like insight of my shame that my astuteness grew.
If I am less than love in all my dealings on this globe
(yes, it’s a sphere!), and care not for the souls of others
even more than for myself, then I am fairly stranded
on a mountain distant from the valleys of my verdancy
and rightly should be filled with shame — not merely
1ce (if I persist) & that’s the end, but many times again,
until I condescend and bow to Wisdom’s honing regimen.
If I am woman (who should pure and noble be) and,
finding I partake in vomit-driven binges,
unholy drunken sprees,
no self-respect or dignity,
my skirt no longer than my knickerline,
my tits on show for all to see,
and tattooed on my chest:
“I’m proud to be a slut!”
(with something worse
engraved upon my butt),
and think that way of life is best,
then I have lost my lovely way
and rightly should be filled with shame
and need to rediscover all the
hidden riches of my femininity again.
For shame’s the road to self-recovery,
(as I have learned throughout this life)
provided that we’re brave enough
to take it wholly into heart, instead of
viewing it as something hostile tearing
us apart and causing strife as we resist
the gift of being beautifully kissed by
self-improvement’s generousful wife.
However, SHAME should never be the room
in which we permanently dwell, nor should
we wallow in some victimhood as “shamed”.
For shame should only be a temporary door
through which we enter briefly, humbled,
to discover more, escaping from the darkness
which we entertained unwittingly before.
“Hey, you judger, are you shaming me?”
indignant voices cry to me self-righteously.
“Most certainly I am!” is my recalcitrant reply,
“and hope you’ll do the same for me”.
For, often, shame’s the only way
out of the labyrinth of lunacy
and subsequently to be free
from our rebellious stupidity.
© Alan Morrison, 2018