Who exactly am I?
I have asked this so many times that time evades me
the tick-tock clicking and vanishing into gossamer whisps
What substance of myself is left
What can be held onto
Anything solid ANYTHING?
Where are my Pieces?
Others are so well put together that I wonder, are they fractured as well, yet their glue is better
Is their brand more resilient?
The more I tried to assemble myself from the pieces of others, to mimic, to mirror, to morphe, the more I shatter from the inside out
and the more I tried to make the shards fit into another's prototype, the more they cut into mine, that I still don't know what it is
Are their pieces shone on like the sun, front-stage, and center?
They are applauded and honored, respected and revered
It's my turn to speak and I run silent, still, frozen
Where are they? Where are my pieces?!
Are they lost?
Are they behind the scenes, in the dark?
Created from the silent screams of an artistic misery stifled?
The dark room of a photographic soul
Alone and developing from the chemistry of my suffering
*breathe*
In this, I realize
I have to develop it on my own.
This time from honest love for my development, my own way
I have to learn to find love in the dark
my dark
my love
I honor the healing in myself
I allow myself to dress my bandages and heal
I allow myself to look at those pieces and say it's okay if I am constantly figuring it out
It's okay if it's always a process
Not only is it alright, but it is also essential
For growth
Constant contemplation, creation, shattering, and revision
Is the "brokenness", too an illusion?
Is that illusion the negative of the print of a soul?
Will you cling to that?
Do you love your pain? Does this fuel you?
Will you deny it's existence altogether?
Can you shine your soul onto your shadow, not dissolving it, but shining on it, regardless and
Always developing?
I am
I am worthy of developing, in my own way
my own template
my own time
