A Self-Portrait in Letters
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A Self-Portrait in Letters

A lyrical poem on looking inside yourself

Moody Forest

They got me on the run, ethereal and destructive. I'm a kindred spirit born in the wrong era, hiding a delicate heart among lots of friends, depraved and serene, half-drowsy in senseless sadness. I am both ashamed and proud of the graffiti in my heart that reminds me a monster is not such a terrible thing to be. Wearing a grin made for fighting and dark circles under my eyes, I promise that a lifetime of searching is better than a lifetime of knowing my soul wasn't a good place to grow your roots. Inside and out, you can feel a concept of terror about me, vulgar and melancholy, all sorts of messy and letting darkness grow.

And it comes to me, like an excerpt from my life, the recollection that I am made of yesterday's afterthoughts and heaven's bad timing, but still beautiful in the tragic fallout. These are the days that must happen to you.

I plea in a lyrical dance, "From this old chaos let there bloom youthful life."

Speaking in dead languages, the dirt whispered back, "Lightly, child, lightly. There is a greater story here still being written."

*Previously published with Spillwords Press https://spillwords.com/cracked-concrete-can-still-grow-weeds/

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