Moi

I am of the many cities I’ve traveled

of the Earth I’ve stepped, the gravel beneath

the little butterfly that left a yellow smear on my finger

the echoes and the music

the many nights of dreamless sleep

hours of looking up dictionaries so people believed I knew

I am of the sweat that rolled off my brow

late nights, swaying colours and desperate measures

the failed attempts at several jobs

the few successes, many worlds, constructs

I am of a quiet solitude, a deep sense of remorse

an odd spark of gurgling bubbling joy

I am of the books I have struggled to read

the words I never learnt to spell

I am of cold nights, whispered condolences

terrifying nightmares and flights of fancy

of long hours of debate, an insight or two

of struggles I can only call my own

of money that I have always overspent

choice and graciousness of many a hue

of a huge crowd and a fistful of friends

from epithets and epitaphs

from smoke and spirit

I am from her and him and them

from her too, though she was never my friend

from barely being able to walk to treks

from a late starter to a voracious reader

from a D grader to an A+

from love and loss, being and being and being and being some more…

I am from a pinch of salt, a struggling mind

from a slippery surface and a crumbling foothold

from magenta leaves, curvy ringlets and bended knees

I am from there and not from here

I am from where I hope to rise to,

Worth more than three smooth pebbles and a crumpled tin can.