Built of imperfections

 

I am built of imperfections,

emotional breakdowns,

mental miscalculations.

Elemental tribal sounds

played with the passion

of a burning supernova.

I am built of trauma,

a dash of theatre and drama,

the flourish of a newborn star.

I am a road map of scars.

Each one leading to a heart

that has been wrung dry,

but each day looks to the sky

as a teardrop flower petal

falls from my eye

and I give thanks to

the moon and stars that shine.

 

In my words there is truth.

There is honesty.

Emotion ripped free

and poured out

for all to see.

And there is fiction

in the strands of reality,

between the two 

I don’t draw a distinction

for the stories are born

from lived experience.

Inspiration given

a slightly new existence.

 

There is hurt in the love.

There are bruises

amongst the roses.

There is horror clinging

like vines to the fairytale towers

that I’ve climbed.

There are seas that sail

over concrete cities.

There are isles and fields.

But in them all is me.

Pieces of my history,

memories I’ve uncovered.

Places I’ve breathed,

people I’ve loved

and the lives I've lived,

grown from tiny seeds.

 

There is truth and there is fiction.

There is play with subtle introspection.

The things I see, the people I meet,

those things on TV, the news in print.

The things of which I think

and the things that think of me.

It’s all a twisted tangle of threads.

A ball of old yarn, told to make sense

if you thread the pieces together again.

I hold so many worlds in my head,

some live beside me,

some inside that only I can see,

but if you come on this ride with me

I'll shed every strand

and lay them out for you to see.