She

Bathed in obsessions over the unattainable,

Constantly craving the desire from gray eyes and long, golden hair.

She

is who she wishes to be.

Her grandmother’s hands are her own; they’ve touched the same lives, just in different ways.

She

is who others view her to be.

Her edges are as sharp as the mind given to her by her father but

her heart is as soft as the kiss her mother planted on her forehead.

The youth in her smile grows from the wisdom the young ones gave her.

She

is her environment.

Her roots are as strong as her aunt’s mind and her legs hold the same power to run as fast as a bird flies when it discovers its wings.

Her ability to float with the clouds comes with the freedom of her music.

Her voice feels like liquid gold that falls down the tips of cheekbones.

She

is her pencil.

Her fingers create shapes and objects that are formed into words that are comprehended as meaningful and wise.

The soul inside her looks at the world as if it’s seen it all before.

Maybe through the eyes of a caterpillar that never quite reached its wings

--or maybe through the eyes of a baby in another dying world.

She

is you.

This poem is about: 
Me

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