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.