When Your Problem Isn’t
I want to write.
I want to write about not being accepted in a country you consider your own no matter how hard you try to display your worth.
I want to write about keeping your secret, that dirty secret of dreams, the dirty phrase of DREAMER so close, so close to your heart.
I want to write about the rattling inside a coffin made up of lies, the close breath you see as you open your eyes and the wood stares back at you, only inches, centimeters, millimeterfromyourface.
I want to write about sweat oozing from the temples, a holy place no more, stripped of my own name just to blend that sweat in a sea of comfort, and smiles.
I want to write how it all ached, the words I trust in you cracking my bones and laughing, who is laughing?
I want to write that when the coffin wood moves, someone laughs.
I want to write about when you rip yourself open, they come swooping down, beaks grab tendons controlling you like a marionette.
I want to write about hope, hope, hoping, hopping in a historic land full of hope, hiding in haste of all the fear they slam! into you.
I want to write about loving those stars, about not being a dreamer, about believing, turning into something tangible heard understood growing up looking at simple stars hope, hopping for something.
I want to write for more, trust in songs that rung of a hazel hue and in that song we trust for a clear reality where I could be someone to sacrifice her life for those stars.
And then, then when they tell me it’s okay, it is okay, it is alright, it is safe.
They take my pen away.
For those stars.