there is a candle in my hands.
there is a candle in my hands, and i can do whatever I like with it.
I can melt it, and pour it down someone's throat.
I can place it in a fancy saucer.
I can hang it from the ceiling, for no reason except to show them what my home is about.
I can smell its aroma, take cover from the cold, brighten up my own world.
I can light its wick, feel hot wax dripping between my fingers.
I can start a fire, one that glows like none other.
i can do all those things, and more.
there is a candle in my hands.
i wonder why it was made.
I wonder if it knows it's just a candle in my hands
i wonder what I'll do with this candle in my hands.
I wonder what i know. I wonder what i'd give. I wonder what i want.
but I guess candles can't wonder, or know, or give, or want.
there is a candle in my hands,
I wonder if it knows.
I wonder if it knows that, should i burn, it is just a candle that I can hold in my two hands,
hands that are large in comparison to it.
there is a candle that I had set down on the ground.
I wonder what it thinks.
I want to leave it alone.
but i come back, pick it up,
hands fumbling with it as if i had the motor control of a child.
and in my hands, i hold my own birth.
see, there is a candle in these small, dwarfed hands.
i can keep it safe; i can hold it close; i can do whatever i want with it.
it is whatever i will it to be.
A/N photo was found online
YOU ARE READING
to be released with clipped wings
Poetrya poetry book chock full of my teenage angst, because i am self aware of it but unwilling to quit. like, hell, if i am to be growing up in an age of anonymity and the internet, then lets fuck around and take advantage of it to vent to people i *don'...
