You can sail the world in your plight,
but take a look around.
Here I am, standing at a crossroad.
My tresses blowing left, and right.
I can feel each cold breath slowly descending down my spine.
Along with it, words of righteousness.
A long and ever gazing tree, wise with the past and words of those who passed.
The trunk may be sturdy but the roots take hold in old soil.
The howling wind sends it shuddering, but my feet have learned to dance along to the tune.
Each cut, and each wound tell a story.
Maybe it's all too raw,
but I won't let any feet step all over their glory.
Like clay, I shape my psyche.
Molding my own version of reality.
Like holding on to a rocking boat,
each stalemate tries to topple me over.
As a spectator your eyes stare on,
but you are being fooled, and I can attest.
As I unfold, you can sense the plot change.
Don't look at me with unassuming eyes,
then play at holding on.
My existence is riddled with holes,
I chose to let them breathe.
Wishing only for the realization of my imperfections.
Not a mending of my shape.
I can sense you discard your own impurities,
and try to pick at mine.
A perfectionist's charade,
A naive acceptance.
We paint our intertwining stories,
and in turn forget the photographs of our reality.
A soulful mirage, all but false memories.
A warrior and a strong pillar of faith,
but your cause has left you blind.
I find you imprinting this impression on every moment you soak in.
My body is but a shell,
A porcelain covering of my own choosing.
On the inside the winds howl,
and I run free and wild.
Your upright silhouette may never sift into mine,
But don't blame my interchanging breeze.
As I have already drawn out the line.
