From the Brainpan of a Specimen Never Meant to Stand

I am not somebody; nor do I have somebody to be  
I have written my years on a blank sheet
And my history to my misery has no beginning
Neither the foreseeable end  
and my body, my brain, my mind
Oh! may they beg for its science; a silence of gaiety
So they do extract this matter, this eye of sight
This point of view that plays the dissatisfaction  
Like the same cycle of songs playing on the radio
Occasionally a new but just another mortification  
The scapula scrapes my cortex  
digs like a shovel through my every lobe
My blood I bleed sprouts carnations from my ears to these shoulders
And so I bled out a bouquet, then a garden, then a field  
Acres and acres of red and pink flowers
Those Researchers goes on to gather and harvest my blossoms
From my ripe bosom
From this defeated woman
From the Brainpan of a Specimen Never Meant to Stand