My Story

September 22, 2012
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To view my colors and schemes,
You must read what I read,
Perhaps maybe what I listen to,
Or live my life through camera lens
Making you snap pictures of my memory

What do you see when I write?
Can you understand what I mean?
Or do you have to live everything I’ve lived?
Or maybe make up a life screen
That you can slip into your brain
To transmit my thoughts and feelings

But whether it’s peeking through windows,
That helps you understand the words of a stocker,
Or listening to letters smashing against one another,
Listening perhaps to a mocker,
I could never recall once when I had to scribble,
Scribble a bunch of nonsense onto paper.

Paper that would stay blank for hours,
Days or even years,
Agitated I grew but still,
I would sit alone and cower from the trauma
Of not being able to make an alliteration or a simile
Consuming cries of creatures created by consonants.

Remorseful was I,
I who could not even punctuate a sentence,
Much less a paragraph,
Or even solve equations of math,
Without having to pause and think.

Thinking about what to do,
Thinking about what food I should choose
In a line full of bananas, cherries, and apples,
Full of stereotypes I could never concern myself with visualizing.

This free verse I am burdened with
Could not maneuver its way into your thoughts
Without having a Sheppard to guide it
Into the streams of forgotten syllables and hyperboles

Who am I to play around with your thoughts?
Your thoughts that are a thousand miles from mine,
Or perhaps I could make you see what I see?
Make you cross over to my side
To find the hidden words to a story,
The story that was my glory

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