A poem, or a confession.
The fundamental details of my life are quite unnecessary, but since inquiry sparks then I will gladly share my story.
I am naked and ashamed. With each question asked you begin to peel away yet another layer of what is me,
made solid by the protection of my secrets.
My mother was a heavy drinker. She wore glasses thick and lipstick bright, thought the look made her look quirky.
I was envious of her character, bright like firestorms blazing with power
Wonder how something so illuminating could conceive a human made purely of what darkness speaks
Embracing what has always been an open wound, Life. Things would sting just a bit more, picture yourself being stabbed with
the stinger of the angriest bee, with his demise a showcase of pure euphoric suicide. That comparison made one feel the utmost
amount of cynicism, but one feels what is actual.
Yet, I have tried to challenge what have become of me
I would paint the sun on the side of my school notebooks, my idea of sunshine
I would bloom my own flowers, declaring war with melancholy.
I will recreate the light
Hoping that it will return the favor
..and recreate me.
Shower me in perfection, and wet me only with happiness
I’d be as intricate as Confucius
and as delicate as peace after war
Like mother, blazing through like a firestorm
Enlightened when lights vanish…