Windows

When I was sixteen years damned

my youthful soul was froze over

my curtains were always drawn and

even my demons searched for cover.

I cared not for the future being,

the self I would become

I had difficulty finding meaning

in the masterpiece my poetry derived from.

 

When I was seventeen years damned 

I drew the dusty drapes 

to find the imprint of a hand

and it's heart lines forecasting fate.

The print was pressed against my atmosphere

and pressured it's stagnant air

my lungs constricted with a different kind of fear

and my hands wrung themselves in despair.

 

Now, I am one year saved from then 

and I have shattered all my windows

I am ready to crawl out of one of them

to face the world's great billows.

I will follow the heart lines on the glass shards

to find my inspiration

Destiny hunting can't be that hard 

after seventeen years of meditation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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