He wasn’t a flower
they were too exquisite. (although he wanted to be, so he could make people sneeze)

                                 He wasn’t a cypress
they were too resilient. (otherwise he would have cracked the concrete)

                                 He was born a ****.
(A yard reckoning wild black mamba)
In the ground, he felt smothered,
digging to a world he never knew.

                                 He was an anomaly
someone who no one desired to water.

                                 He was a problem,
                                 a pest,
                                 something like
                                 Fruit flies in a Florida summer
                                
He was a stain,
                                 a blood smear on an angel white Kleenex.
                                
He was a pain,
                                 a sturdy lump in her kidney the doctor had to explain.

He dug                     through boggy dirt,
                                 carving away.

He dug                     through swampy mud
                                 while the sky hiccupped tears,
                                 constantly, continuously making
                                 a path that he could climb.

He wanted—freedom
                                 a love amongst the elegant lantana.

She fears planes
because she’s always been scared to fly.

I am he that needs redemption—
Does the Earth know exemption?
A boy and his pen I dream of books.
A boy and his pen I dream of quasar.

Now redemptions on your mind when you think about me.

Love is blue hues peppering away

I was ready to love you in white trim
You found delight in embarrassing me.

You taught me that night—
I’m not him.
These pages I overwrite
with words I whip to curse you
like a purple gallinule
may you never soar.

I don't want to smile.
There's no use of showing teeth or feeling God's air against them.
If you want pain--I have the keys to the shed.
If you want love--

I'm on that ship headed north.
I can't promise you I'll return from this journey.
But I want it--I am human.

And I must find the hues I don't own.

I will not atone to a world
with swift heavy fists
demanding the bestowing
of my hues.

Believe even when the sky seems it'll never turn blue.

It’s been sixty days since I’ve put pen to paper—
my feelings to ideas—
who I am to what I dream—
I need to read in order to fly.
I need to listen in order to guide.

Alone I fish the Atlantic with my fears
I can’t cherish raw moments with my peers.

I’ve returned to prove I’m brave.
I don’t want to be normal.
I want to embrace my crooked thoughts—
my dry skin—I want to see colors.

I’m not just living in an idea.
I want to make reality my realm.
Somewhere I can feel love and cherish
the clouds—my spirit dust.