beautefantasy

What Makes Me, Me

What makes me, me,
Is sometimes hard to see,
Because you have to dig deep into the surface,
To really find the purpose,
Of why my dark blue eyes are sometimes trimmed in light,
And how the fire burning within me makes me fight,
For what is right and stand up for what is wrong,
And how I love to sing songs,
Getting lost in their melodies and in the way,
With my eyes open, how I dream the day away.

Because even though I wear my heart on my sleeve,
It’s hard for me to believe,
Because negative blood runs through my veins,
And I’m not quite sure how to deal with pain,
But my heart still beats full of love,
In a world that is void of,
Such compassion,
Because it’s no longer in fashion.

I speak in a language that few know,
When my emotions overflow,
Escaping my sleeve they go,
Watching as they grow,
Into the words stitched together on the paper,
And lifting the weights resting on my shoulder, combusting into vapor,
That seeps into my skin,
And cleanses the bacteria within.

Because even though I’m an open book,
My chapters are out of order and often mistook,
For being another story altogether,
When I’m light as a feather or under the weather,
And when I bond more with the nonhuman creature,
Or when you don’t quite catch onto my features,
As my face contorts when I look down to the ground,
In fear of putting a single pound on an insect roaming around.

What makes me, me,
Is sometimes hard to see,
Because you have to dig deep into the surface,
To really find the purpose,
And sometimes, you won’t have the right tools,
But if you dig me apart long enough, you’ll find my jewels,
And if you learn my tongue,
You’ll understand my language unsung,
Because what makes me, me,
Is easy to see when you know where to find the key.

• 12 September 2011
• 2