i look at my body sometimes,
and i can’t help but to feel pathetic
for i look like a sack of bones…
fragments, rather, of other people’s trash
that they threw at our house’s door.
and my mother was so desperate to
create another being from scratches,
like a madman with his pile of junks,
and then named it using the exact
letters of my name.
i look at my body sometimes,
and cry of the thought that
i could have been someone else.
someone better than this kid
living inside a weak, small body
of an old woman.
my mother could have melted metals
and covered me with it.
or she could have chewed
the coins she earned
from being a hard-working employee,
until they turned into gold powder
and sprinkled it on me.
i could have been something else,
so why?
why did i end up like this?
i was a pouch of sand, dreaming to be
a castle someday.
instead, i was thrown into the beach
and now i have nowhere else to go,
nothing else to be.
mother, please don’t blame me, for i, too,
never aspired to be
a nobody.
YOU ARE READING
Found This Book Somewhere In The Forest
Poetry"Talk to my soul later midnight, when the moon's at its peak. That's the only way of communication that I know, because my physical lips will stutter if I told you about how I want to tear my human skin apart and go out."
