Torn by Things (Moving)

Torn by Things. Objects that I belong to, that own me,
All this stuff.
People that put thoughts in my head and words in my mouth and clothe me
With clothes that define my shape, my age,
My comfort or discomfort.
An economy that measures my worth, the worth of this body.
And a society that deals with the worth of its product, the product of the stuff,
The thoughts, the words, the clothes, the body, this thing, this empty thing.
Love that claims me, respect that coats me, heavy and cold.
Scientists that steal my organs, synapses, cells, the thoughts projected in and out.
A language that controls me, as a machine.
A past that affirms control, time that dictates a future, all things outside.
All things inside belonging to the outside.
The I itself is nothing.
This is how I try to move house.

[circa 2009?]

This is a poor poem. Why? (As if you have to ask). It seems barely finished, the choice to end certain lines, with the resulting enjambment, is obvious in some places and obviously unthought in others: clothe me/with clothes is almost intentionally clumsy. It swims in too much self pity and therefore loses any inclusiveness it could gain through generalisation. This is the main criticism: it tells. Every line tells you its exact outcome. For 2009 it seems pretty tawdry. The truth of this poem is that I felt my life had lost any autonomy. Poems are often at their worst when they are written with someone in mind. I suppose I wrote this in the hope that my girlfriend would start loving me again and my friends would show guidance. It is a cringer, that’s all that can be said.