This world was not meant for one’s stature like me. My homework is like walking into a cruel room, punishing those who stop to smell the roses with its hot, jagged coals.

And when you walk the room, you are given choices of many professions, which I mean to talk about. The stalls of the office and its work is meant to suck the creativity from your mind. Fighting is also not a thing meant for my thin, frail body. I have not the means or will to fight.

But poetry is different. When I write, my child's giggles to fill the red wall ballroom of my heart. And when it finishes a grand work, fear not when she runs through the vast hallways my arteries, the velvet carpet never plays tricks on those that walk it.

When I speak the poetry, is like silken words being spun on my velvet tongue. The soft sound of my native language spends the words into a grand tapestry that is hung on the walls of the child's room: my mind.

My child likes the sprint to the vast teal forests that is my soul the most. It likes it so because of its starry twilight sky's incoming bioluminescent greenery that glows in the half darkness. Finally, when the day is over, the poetry is hung in the bedroom and the words of young and old sing its thoughts till and passed my child's sleep.