(( A poem i wrote for AP))
I am from the kind of Autumns that allow you to feel the color orange in your soul.
With a sort of heat that is also chilling to the body
A place to call your home,
Even if it is not.
I am from the blistering summers,
And from the icy (not the snowy kind) winters,
With memories of a happy in between.
I am from the sky of the South that is painted by the artists of the dead.
I am the black cat of the Savanah, always depicted alone
It may not always be that way,
But that is how it seems.
I am from the cat,
The domesticated kind.
Because not everyone is able to see and understand the wildness within.
I am from centuries of old.
The castles in faraway lands, that are timeless,
Yet an age is always placed upon it.
From words that remain too broad in statement.
Word without specific ranges to them
'You're too young' and 'that's too old'
At what age is one to escape such pestering words?
I am the darkness of night, the colors that accompany the moon and the stars.
The sky when it is colored by an artist's heart that night,
As the sun sinks below the clouds.
The pinks, oranges, and blues... Soothing yet often giving a warning,
They illuminate the sky, and sink to the darkness of night.
Even in the black expansion, there is the illumination to provide an exquisite beauty.
I am from the deep South.
Where things of individuality,
Ideas that stray far from tradition and femininity accompanied by masculinity,
Are frowned upon.
A life in the South is depicted by the family that raised you.
Though such individuality exists,
And refuses to remain hidden deep inside a hole.
I am the paint brush, the black thin ink pen, and the paper to use as a means of expression.
I break the rules of old and express my ideas.
Gender roles and being silenced, are not for me.
The pen I hold will express that in words when I have the ability to.
The paint brush I hold will one day illustrate the streets and homes of many.
And one day, my soul shall be allowed to paint the sky.
With the artists of the dead.
I am the ever growing existential issue in one's own soul.
A sinking feeling that it may never be right,
That it may never be accomplished,
Or given a second thought.
I am merely the sliver of hope that illuminates the darkness of night.
Guiding one through the melancholy before it becomes too late.
I am the one to stray from tradition,
Here in the South. Where bible thumpers, kids, and teachers
All have good intentions.
I am here with the hope,
That one-day God shall allow my straying soul
To be one of the artists of the dead.
