You, being there; while I, getting there
A poem
Look, you survived your last weeping
A bite of a cockroach sprung on your eyes
And guess what? It might happen again,
A running film with no endings;
Starring a story of scars and tattoos.
The story of this pain and that hurt,
Has made you yearn
For an ink to finish the sentence,
For a rope to strangle a weight.
There’s a vast horizon, they say
But it isn’t about how big or small;
It is the empty or full, that matters.
You and I have both, though;
Full of roommates in our heads,
While an empty bottle of chemicals.
Hey, I do not want to brag,
But I am getting there — getting better.
Been there; I was there,
A crucifixed boy on his bed,
Stuck on the realm of voidness,
I was in the bottom of a giant’s stomach,
Just now, emerging, projecting myself,
That I am genuinely okay. Fine. Cool.
Those okay, fine, and cool, feelings,
Have me guarded, with a thought:
One day, all these okay, fine, and cool, descriptions,
Will be colored as black, as red, as blue,
Thus, I am scared. Frightened. Afraid,
like dandelions getting bald of its hair;
Losing its beauty, as this is a source of seizing.
I am Afraid. But I can’t wait to tell you,
I had been.
