I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.
I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)
I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.
I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.
I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.
I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”
I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”
I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.
I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.
In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.
Jun 20, 2011
Jun 20, 2011 at 2:47 PM UTC
I am from noise.
From a womb that was too crowded
and a million hospital wires
In a tiny broken body.
I am from laughter.
From towering Christmas trees and squash soup.
(Bright orange, it tasted like warmth)
I am from music.
From constant choir chants and piano fingers
Scrambling and hurried, excited.
I am from Michelle my Belle
From a full hectic house and gravestones
That never made the cut, no matter how artistic.
I am from a rusty fifteen passenger van.
From Rodgers and Frere Jacque.
Dancing bare feet on the cold white cement.
I am from Roots and Wings
From “that’s my girl!”
And “I’m sorry for your loss”
I am from hot cinnamon skin,
Glistening with sweat.
From a hard day’s work and “If you get better”
I am from squinting eyes and skeptical looks.
From the big oak tree leaves you could touch if you
Reached high enough.
And screams echoing everywhere.
I am from footsteps getting the laundry
From black and white movies that a child
Should never watch.
And gingersnaps with a hint of smoke.
In a black bound notebook,
Covered with crayon marks crazy
Within every lined page are my days I lived
My horizons are laced with uncertainties
I hide them under my pillow
Listen to ghost footsteps
And cradle Sunny to sleep.
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