For so long, I've kept the flame igniting. When it was dosed, I made sureit kept burning. When others long for warmth, I shared...even when there washardly any for myself. The simple act of sharing was enough for me to stay warmand satisfied. For I knew how it was to be lost without a flame. I thought Icould keep this going, but it feels like I've been wronged. Feel as thoughpeople view me as a reflection of the flame; small, but welcoming.Unintimidating like others who cultivated their own spark. The physicalappearance, rather than the tenacity it took to keep it from falling apartwhilst still sharing with those in need. I've been disrespected. I always loathethe act of disrespect. And I further despised what I'm feeling; HATE. Myflame isn't withering, but it feels cold nonetheless. Perhaps I'm lost on whatto do with it now that I do not feel the need to share it. My spark alwaysseemed to match the color red, orange, or perhaps yellow. Like a warm welcome.But now I see a blue, maybe white color. Intense, mysterious, and unwelcoming.Is this what I really want? I cannot say for sure. One thing is for sure. It'shard to feel hate, and loneliness when you are indeed hateful and lonely.
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A Weather of Memoirs
PoetryWhenever life has me feeling at my best, my worst, or anything in between. An outlet is needed to let those emotions and thoughts express themselves; to take on an entity of its own.
