I describe myself,

in characters in whom you --


recognise yourself!

It comes to me that I
don’t truly know who I am.

Some call me brilliant,
lovely, bright, and beautiful ,Others call me idiotic ,
depressing, selfish.

I don’t know my name,
shaped and molded by the perceptions of others.
Who am I?

Lying awake at the peak of dawn,
I ask myself—
what’s my favorite color? My hobbies? My favorite food?
Nothing.

I don’t know who I am.

Am I the cool breeze that lingers in the August heat?
Am I the rivers that flow through the soil and greens?
Am I the rain—crying the sky’s tears,
consoling those who weep?
Am I the moon—adored in private, unseen by day?

Or maybe…

I’m the earthquake that shatters hearts and souls.
Maybe I’m the tornado that destroys as it goes.
Maybe I’m the villain in this story,
while someone else— is the hero.

I don’t know.
I don’t know who I am.
Perhaps I never will.

I only see myself through others’ eyes, never my own.
My own mind—
a war zone.
With My heart and mind, forever at war.

I don’t know who I am.
Perhaps, I never will-
Lost in echoes of voices— not my own.

I looked into her Eyes full of sparkle and wonder her mind so full of possibilities and love It spills out all around her. A me from before the world took my voice and crushed me. I promised her the world with one foot outside of her pink polka dot room full of innocence.

With every step I took the air grew colder and my words grew teeth.
I used to hear her cry
Begging me to stop
that I can come back
“there’s beauty in being soft”
enjoy the thunderstorm as it passes
Even with all the damage that it leaves together, We can find the beauty in the rain its smell the refreshment of the cold breeze.

But she doesn't know she is safe in that room because I locked the door and boarded up the windows.
they told me she is too soft.
The world is too cruel for her to be safe.
Her skin bleeds when it hits the outside air. Just pain comes when she is out, and there is no beauty in pain, only suffering.

Her words have become white noise as I wander this condemned house alone. I almost missed... I almost missed “When is the last time you took a moment to look outside?” Barely a whisper on the other side of my childhood door, which caught me off guard because they were never whispered before. She always roared. I'm hit with the crushing realization. Oh no, what have I done to her.  

I stole her voice in trying to keep it for me. Lost in this never ending mazes of who I’m suppose to be.

Her words slowly grow louder, almost as if all she needs is to be seen.
“The storm is gone now, and the birds have began to sing.”
Her words grow bolder as if she finally found her way to be free.
“You abandoned both of us for the sake of me, but the storm has passed, and I promise if you just listen, you can hear the birds sing.” Somehow her hand finds mine on the other side of the door-a connection we have both been searching for.
For the first time I could hear the little birds, even if far off and faint.
“Let me out, unlock this door, and maybe after all this time we can find what we have been searching for”
in that moment I swear I can hear the bird that sings of hope sitting just outside the front door
Wondering if this the moment we have been waiting for to rip this house down board by board.
Rebuilding together to be so much more.

I just can't be anything can I
A particle and a wave
Everything and nothing
That's a fact
Lingering in the cusp of a twilit doorway
I am nothing as I sit on the verge of everything
Can I be if I am not here nor there
Or anywhere but here
Straddling the identity of not one another, but two
For everything I find that is Whole
I begin to see only fractures of myself
Fracturing into pieces that’s what I am
Pieces of different puzzles
Smashed together into something new
Never really fitting together quite right

at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
torn at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’
blowing dirt off bookshelves,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.

Attributes of the walking stick
hung around like charity shop clothing -
bagged and ready to go

It was a switch that had truely altered time again
(\ - this is not poetry it is gospel.)and a shower which managed to scrub off a few inches of the ***** dirt

a sectre of a cultural conversation
that stands for nothing
whether i'm ***** again ot not.

The chip shop gave me free water, and i just considered myself lucky at the time
but its starting to make me more suspicious now

and not in the way that i've seen my whole teenage and further years as a massive xenephobia crime made to seem more convincing through dehydration

I have lived 30 years

Living 30 years of experiences

All of them the same me

Picture frame of ugliness – but not what the world sees,
when your paint yourself under your insecurities.
Does that make you a coward; or are their eyes
the cowards, too afraid to see the real picture of
themselves?

societal expectations, and passive judgments –
behold their critical gaze; yet so are the eyes that can’t
stare themselves in the face. so too, blinded by their
own fears, and personal insecurities.

But as you start to peel away at the metaphoric picture
frame, retracing their hidden layers of drawn over
strokes of new paint - embracing vulnerability;

I'm between finding myself in my inner self-criticism,
and external judgments – I could be the picture of the
prettiest flowers, and hoping one day I learn to paint
myself under the brushstrokes of security, and
vulnerability!

my picture is finally complete!