If a poem could hold even half the burden I am carrying inside
and give me peace (I ask a bit)
I’d write it.
But heart is wild and I have stepped into fire so my face and feet are burning.
A paper is too far away.
I got a brush sitting near so I hold it to the flames because I know
I know that if I try I can turn them blue
like skies or water
and it won’t hurt anymore
but you see, it just melted in my hand and I only got more blisters.
Trust me I wanted to heal.
Your promised land of perfect endings now dances before my eyes:
it’s full of rainbows, calm waves, butterflies and roses combined.
But oh destiny unkind! My throat chokes and scars scream and fingers just don’t reach.
My fingers just don’t reach.