A short poem that I wrote about my early childhood.
Sprinting from place to place,
Not so many as it seems,
But as swift as an owl’s wing beats.
As silent to onlookers.
They would treat me as stable,
But I was missing a wheel.
Until I once recall murmuring to her,
The burden I felt I was to them,
How I would not be noticed dead.
I feel that needle still,
Ripping into time,
Because they always blank me,
I bet you do too.
I have not lived,
Much of this life of mine,
But however childish I act,
Does not define my mind.
I was raised under a sugar glass ceiling,
Speaking my thoughts to be the noise causing shards to fall.
But this sugar glass impales more like daggers,
Unable to be pulled from the ground up.
Never have I said what I mean,
Only what others believe to be true.
For if I utter one wrong lexeme,
I will only be loved by rue.
For as I utter one wrong lexeme,
Am I only loved by rue?
The words you speak are drowned by actions,
That’s when I watched you seal your grave.