Thirteen was the age
he got a rogue mind
a fit for romantic Renaissance,
the perfect time to get scars.
Fifteen was liberation,
reckless, frenzy, unmeasured.
Seventeen was awkward alright,
it was when he started burning
in every direction
with his ashes as his art piece
and people were either fire hazards
or fire exits.
Nineteen was placid but bright
he was searching for conquests
and his scars started to hurt
but he already had a map to it.
Vast like a continent
it bears his landmarks
a place comfortable to break apart
and rise again
a hometown he could return to.
Twenty one was exploration,
deconstruction
and rediscovery
that his soul is inevitable,
yet could catch fire;
A beautiful land with blemishes,
of rogue minds, of delicate
yet inevitable times,
a perfect map of scars.
YOU ARE READING
Live
PoetryOur hearts are brave as fire, minds gentle as earth, dreams are fluid as water, and our souls are as free as the wind. (Poetry and Prose) #2 of the end-live-begin trilogy.
