I've been aware, I am made of thistle,
winter and dark earth, of storm, thunder
and lightings on summer nights. I am
run with dark, sugarless coffee, bitter
and warm, embracing the parts that are
harder to love and harder to find.
She is made of willow leaves, raindrops
and sunlight, a contradicting force
that brings life to the desertic weather,
a valley of green and hard mountains.
She is full of dreams, shiny and far away
as the stars above. She is brighter.
She is made of fire, the flames about
her dance with cautious power. The summer
heat fuels her blood, no stopping her work,
oh but she knows of sleepless nights, her
fingers know only the touch of coal on paper,
of colors swirling in water. She is alive.
She is made of bittersweet waves, she
carries a coldness close to her chest,
numbing kindness across her lips. She
walks light as air, a chaotic storm at
her heel, she is made of salt and strength.
She brings forth the clouds. She is unafraid.
She is made of strings, a melodic hunger
to her ways, her mind is tuned by her
fingers everyday. She chases sleep away
with ivory and black keys, the creation
of a symphony trails from her brain to
her fingertips. She is proud.
She is made of nature, a force no one
can hold in their arms, the fury in her
veins melts away their hate and their love,
she carries a smile on her face and fist
in her pocket. Hardened heartstrings pull
with every chance left behind. She is awake.
She is made of ink, spilled on paper and
never spoken, she is made of long nights
wondering and dreaming, lost between a
blissful imperfection and reality's nightmares.
She is made of young sighs and lost glances,
of poetic songs and broken glass. She is lost.
She is made of rivers and tides, a moon
bright in the sky, powerful in freedom,
merciful and divine. She is made of her
past, days gone by in the shadows, spring
dying in a summer's night. She surrounds
herself in lessons. She is wise.
She is made of darkness, of starless skies
and magic. She is made of bitten skin
and loneliness, of the heavy silence and
the humming of a song. She is made of
a quiet violence and familiarity, of a
sharp mind and clever tongue. She is secure.
She is made of twigs and feathers, of
the autumn leaves that fall at our feet.
She is made of loaded stares and weakness,
of tears and blushes hidden behind walls.
She is made of light and honey, a sarcastic
bone no one expects. She is unapologetic.
I've been aware, we are all perfection
in utopic words, no mistakes in the way
we blink back the things we don't need.
No mistakes in the way we can't help but
be, or in the way we so fiercely choose to.