I am the memories hidden from my consciousness
for better of for worst
like the mess inside my room
that helps me organize myself.
Four years ago that mess wasn't there.
And four years ago I used to sing in the shower
with the same voice as my mother
when she sung me lullabies, while tucking me in to sleep.
And later on she'd pray to a god I can't see,
the same god I used to beg at when I was fifteen
and yell at-- and scream at--
and love as much as I hated myself.

I am the words I've been told,
the prophecies,
the gold in my ears,
and the astrology sign that stays the same
year by year,
even though I change
like my favorite colors: pink, red and beige.
But I'm not too sure because those colors are pretty lame,
if you ask twelve year old me,
the one that thought boys were a necessity
as fundamental as air--
but, no; I also like girls.  
And when my counsellor asked me why,
I couldn't really say;
I'm not sure I want to tell him I've been thinking of *** since I was eight,
or how long it took me to be okay
with the fact that I'm not actually straight,
even though Mom thinks it's a shame.  

Mom, I'm still the same, even though I'm not;
I am still the string of cells that was once bundled up inside you like a knot.
I still wrap myself around you in a hug
hoping you will understand that my love transcends the heavens above
and the destination of the lost
that some people call hell.
I don't care
and I don't think I ever will
because the past stays still
while the future stares;
no matter what, I will continue being myself,
even if I don't understand my nature.

I am more than what I seem:
I am the dreams produced in deep sleep
by my curiosity,
the ones I cannot remember
but to which I quietly surrender,
as I am a vase crafted by the hands of destiny
and the ever changing state of humanity.
I am the moods bestowed by the seasons--
sometimes they mess up with my reason
and inside me grows a fight
of who I am and who I should be.
Who am I, definitely?
I can't really say...

The well in your eyes is profound
and overflowing with memories
that blossom the garden of your personality,
home to colors none could ever imagine.  

The well in your eyes is profound
and dangerous to the curious child
that still hasn't learned how to swim
in the waters of your experiences.  

The well in your eyes is profound,
a spring of blessings sprouting from the ground
for the poor souls to rejoice
in the quenching of their thirst.

The well in your eyes is profound
and full of love.

Woman, you are not a flower.

You are not a flower,
vulnerable to a pull,
an ephemeral pleasure to the eyes,
fooled by the illusion of time,
controlled by the seasons,
only to die.

You are the wind that is infinite
and completely out of reach;
no one can encapsule your freedom or your dreams.
Nature is enamoured by your curiosity,
the way you brush the tides
and dance with the trees.
Woman, you are more than what you seem.

I have a slight infatuation
with motes of dust
as they float and muster up, up, up
and away from my grip,
just like you.