I am from paint,
from canvas and brush.
I am from the rose,
dead in my yard.
Where the sun never reaches the petals,
it lies, black and withered.
I am from the twin tree,
with moonlight sparkle show of the frost.
Standing still in the twin tree,
the unfair air ****** my bark.
The frost melts into a trickle,
as it leaves a black mark.
I am from the smell of cigarette smoke,
wafting off my grandmother's skin.
In her loving embrace is where I feel home.
I am from a mother,
who is bitter and somber.
I am from a father,
who is foreign.
I am me,
estrange and wee.
I am from a home I will never see.