Without Colour

Who Am I?

I was born into the unlucky.
To a girl who was still a child, and a man who didn't stay.
Born into the part of America known as pathetic, poverty stricken, forced to watch the giver of my life flaunt her ass..ets for a little bit of cash just so that I could eat.
I was locked into a routine of finding new men in the kitchen each morning, making sure I was polite so my mom could have a steady list of people paying into her life style.
Though she tried, made an effort, finished the credits for high school she missed when she had to drop out because I interrupted it. She even considered UNI but then the poison took in.
The devilish thoughts crept into her head each night as she argued with a new husband over her previous style of life, and they pondered the significance of the new born baby in a crib just a few feet away.
And as her new love yelled along side a wailing baby boy with brown bouncing curls, she became frightened, and she ran away taking the boy and the very young me along with her.
And we ran from all kinds of trouble, escaping from reality whenever fit the necessity.
I learned to do this with my words, and my voice.
I had been talented since birth in the art of turning emotion into melody and making my life a metaphor, I had nearly forgotten there was a place called earth when the mixed reality of the place I call my mind seemed so much more fulfilling.
My mother lost her wits and turned to pills and liquid as a means of escape- as many her age would.
Just a young girl who lost her ability to live while she was alive.
And so when she had realised what an unfit mother she had become, offing herself was the only other option- yet she never could.
Try and try as she may, we were her purpose, and she couldn't leave us alone.
But in the end, I supposed it didn't matter. For into to the system we went.
Or at least I went.
I became a case number and a ward of a state before I could learn that I was also a human.
I was thrown into homes with perfect strangers and new rules and regulations to follow before I formed a coherent opinion of my own.
Just a decade I had been alive, and I had not one thought to myself that I didn't have to share with a therapist, or tell to a new woman I'd now refer to as
"Mom."
A new woman with hail and brimstone and fire as a way of love.
Speaking of a God I'd only heard about in bedtimes stories.
Who was He?
And do I believe?
To think of a hope for a lost soul like myself I had to first believe I had a soul, and to even consider the possibility, I had to find myself first.
And I turned back again and again, to my ever faithful lovers.
A pencil and a paper, with my mistresses- the keys of a piano and the strings of a guitar.
Finding my voice was like finding my purpose.
My fingers just KNEW- oh how did they just Know- where to place themselves, how to flow over white and black to create a piece.
And with out second thought I had found my soul.
As it flowed from my lips down to my fingertips, yes... there I was.
And every sharp or flat fit perfectly. No mater how off it sounded alone, together it became.... Magic.
And there I formed my first coherent thought, my own opinion to myself; the human race was a symphony.
Awkward when parts were played alone, not one exactly like the other, for each note has its own place and timing, and yet..
Yet we are
Magic.
No matter the accent on your tongue, or the pigment of the skin you're wearing, nor the way you choose to love another-
For that is just a small note needed to make the piece work.
We are all just... Notes.
All just... Chords.
All just... Rests, beats, lines on a paper...

And every symphony
Ends.