and in waking up, i see.
i believe in beginnings.
with each moment new
i am satisfied being me, and you being you.
this tree stands alone
and though not frozen
still growing
my hands up in the air, but my heart is still knowing
to be not afraid
to live my days
alive in the sound of sweet suicide of emotion
they end their own time in a hurried mess
and left behind
is a trace, a trail
explaining in fragments
how the overwhelming began
in the beginning.
i am the pages in this book, not the words
my essence is the soft paper
providing the space for the story to unfold.
1 comment:
I love the vulnerability in this poem. It's really brave. The end is nice: you are not defined, you are open and unwritten.
I also like how the two metaphors in the poem are a tree and a book, which are essentially the same thing.
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