I was not born on this land
to be taken down by abuse,
I am not yours to blame;
The being that homes this body
is way too vast to be fathomed
in your finite existence.
I am not the work of limited
imagination of men
whose depths only know
colour, creed or size.
That you cannot see the human
I am behind this costume I adorn is a loss you own.
You try to control me like a puppet
as if you could ever hold my fiery spirits
in those hands of yours.
As if your mind could ever hold
my dreams, and my imagination.
He who made me crafted this universe
to rise and thrive and enlighten
their own worlds.
I am not yours to hurt.
This abuse is a reflection
of the misery you cause your own
spirit. The pain you try to
impress on me is a mirror
to the scars your body wears.
I am a work of art instead, the kind
that’s preserved in museums
and hidden in treasures,
that has travellers from far
to get a glimpse of.
I am the fire that rose
to bring down tsunamis,
the mountains that formed
when tectonics subsided,
the seas that flowed from under
the cracks of middle earth,
the lava that could melt civilizations
but still stood cool because
it’s compassion is infinite too.
You, who has turned his body into an
ocean of sorrows, and chained
his life to his shallow upbringing,
you never deserved me anyway.
