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The Cloud I Didn’t Create
I am sorry for what I did,
Though I am not sure what exactly I did.
I thought I was just being a kid,
But now I know a hurricane has hit.
I am sorry for doing a cartwheel on concrete,
I was 6, just tired of being in the back seat.
The back seat of the cars driven by my family, friends, strangers,
Showing off Porsches, Ferraris, Lambos, leaving me wondering,
What do I have? Who am I?
I am sorry for wanting to show that I have a car too,
It may be a little small or maybe needs so much work to do.
But it was still mine, was it so wrong to be proud?
So wrong that you gave me this horrible, dense cloud?
I am sorry for being a kid, sorry for being proud
Because everyone thinks that is why I have this cloud.
Have these other strangers not done the same?
Why am I the only one suffocating in this density that has made me so tame?
I am sorry if I did something wrong,
The child didn’t mean any harm.
I am sorry if I am losing hope drop by drop, day by day,
And I am sorry if I quietly disappear into the dark cloud in the bright days of May.
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This poem explores my experience growing up with a chronic disorder and the frustration of being blamed for things beyond my control. It’s a personal reflection on resilience, identity, and the ways we cope with unfair judgment, told through the metaphor of a cloud that follows me.