they say the moon landing killed poetry
but those who came back
all became poets

who i am is a product
of my mother
of my father
however hateful,
and however proud
as a flower doesn't choose its color
this, I've become

from my mother I learned
that there exists love
fruitful, but sour
bled from vanity
never a man but a child
could one ever love
that is what I learned from my mother

from my father I learned
to let the past go
that what is left home
will be torn apart
and what you hold onto
will be torn from your hands
that is what I learned from my father

I learn fast
and grew up young
born from my mother
captive of my father
splitting my life into integrated sectors
dividing my time and pleasures
into two, neat halves
the halves are muddy
but separate nonetheless
and in two different directions,
I am going one

forcing myself to accept
that this is all there is
and then its nothing

for now I will keep my little papers
because they bring me joy
but one day I'll chop myself up like a piece of clay
grey and soft and firm
to a small blank surface
ready to mold
ready to begin a new road
cross my fingers
not to sicken
cross my heart
not to remorse
mourn my memories that leave me still
but break from this proper cycle
fill my trashcan full of papers
that soon will empty
by then, there will be nothing
I could hope to do
my treasures are fleeting
and I, for once, will be new