I was woven together in my mothers womb,
I was carefully pieced together, like a work of art I went from being a cell to a fully formed being with a beating heart
A slow process of nine months, I was being perfected every detail lightly sketched,
I am a work of art
My mother, such a beautiful face, but in a moments notice that same face became struck with grief
Like a drunk driver speeding on the highway all of these emotions hit her and from those wounds she could not recover,
No, you do not understand she didn't know I was coming, you see that news would come later on
But my mother, my beautiful mother, well, she was ***** and this is where I fit into this story
The visit to the doctor was no easy task,
No, she was torn
Torn between wanting to keep me and also wanting to erase me

MOM!! I GET IT!!
This decision doesn't come lightly, it saddens me to know how much pain this has brought you, how much pain I have brought you
Every single day a new detail is painted, the paintbrush swinging so elegantly, almost like a leaf that flies in the wind
I am a work of art
But you see, my mom, she too is a work of art,
So elegantly put together, the way her hair flows and her eyes tell the story of a warrior,
A person who never stops fighting,
Her eyes so brown like a coffee bean that you smell and instantly smile
That's not even the best part, the best part is the way her lips quiver when she smiles, the sound of her laughter can brighten up any room
She brings people together with just the sound of her voice,

Yeah, you know what? My mom is my hero,
I'm still not here but shes the only world I need to know
She too, is a work of art
Don't you see it?
We are both pieces of art, put together so beautifully that it really is "love at first sight"
I am not here yet, and my mom still hasn't made up her mind,
But I'll tell you this, whether she keeps me or she doesn't that doesn't matter to you
This isn't your story to tell and quite frankly this doesn't concern you,
This song is not your song to sing, so please let my mom take the stage and tell her story through this song

This is the song of a fighter,
The trumpets are roaring,
Her choices are her choices, this isn't your decision to make,
She is both the canvas and the artist,
I am a work of art but my mother, man she's the real masterpiece.

Why are weeds considered ugly plants?
They are but the most beautiful anomaly in this cruel and unfair world.
Despite the lack of water and necessary care,
they still manage to find a way through the tightest and inhospitable of cracks,
chasing the warm kiss of the sun,
and to be showered by the cleansing rain.
But when they do overcome their hardships,
greedy, unrelenting hands reach down,
and strip them from the earth,
pulling out their roots,
and throwing them away.
Then the place that they worked so hard to exist in,
is taken over by some eye-pleasing blossom.
Real beauty is not found in those that are given everything,
but rather in that of striving to simply be,
to overcome obstacles,
and rise above,
no matter the circumstance.
There is something beautiful about that fight and determination,
and nothing profound about a flower that is nourished with constant love and affection,
because they will only grow to be weak and fragile.

Her legs were determined to never tremble again,
Her breath was never shallow since that day,
She no more thought about her agonizing pain,
The price for someone’s cowardice, she would never pay.

The words unsaid, were no more hidden in her heart,
She spoke freely; her thoughts had gained wings,
A soul without fear, her spirit was ready for a new start,
She was at last, herself, a human, among other human beings.

Strings of hopelessness with which she was tied,
Were, by her soul’s fiery rage, torn,
That day, with sheer shame, a victim died,
With a new cry of vigour, a fighter was born.

Words Don't Walk
              So
      ******* Talk
           You'll
Speak it the **** up
              Or
      Get it in bulk.

and it happens like this —
youth like the matches that make up your rib cage,
black smoke breathes in and out from your chest.
inhale, exhale, they call this a flashover.
the room combusts, and i am running for the door.
armor made of leather and air tanks.
it was not enough to rescue me from the intensity of your flame.

they sound off the alarm.
once, twice, three times.
you carry the ashes, you sing to me once more.
and how could this be?
the structure collapsing below my feet, and i imagine falling into your hands.
but there are tools in place and the weight of your exhaustion.
pulling at the air above and exposing the danger unseen.

but you see, you and i, we were forged from the most violent fire.
our bones in pits and veins feeding the gasoline.
days shaped by your heat —
they taught me how to prevent burns.

gear up, lead the way, extinguish the threat.
but, babe, they did not go over how to survive the flash of light,
the scorched throats and screams of 'mayday!'.

no, they did not prepare me to face the intensity of high tempatures in the form of your absence.
they taught me how to be blind in the dark,
how to pull you from it's depths.
but not to survive your structure's demise.

they did not teach me how to live when you set everything aflame.

I'm lost
I'm alone
my future
is unknown

I'm hurt
I'm in pain
under this
bullet's rain

I try
not to cry
not to fade
not to die

I fight
through the night
until darkness
Becomes light

I hold
onto life
onto the memory
of my wife

I persist
I resist
in hope
to be kissed

I return
I survive
I don´t dream
I revive

I'm awake
I'm alive
with you
I thrive

I'm a soldier
I'm a fighter
with you
I shine brighter