I would like to think
that through evidence of
split ends collected in the
dustpans of hair stylists,
my ability to understand the words:
“Pythagorean Theorem”
and its usage of
a2+b2=c2,
with the rumpled report cards
long stored away in a filing cabinet,
would be enough to suggest I've
finally blossomed from
coloring out of the
lines in coloring books,
to studying the different
governments ancient Greece used
in their struggle for power.
As if that gave me knowledge
To how the laws within me
Worked.

That would be because
of my so called
“innate judgment”
on whether a child
turned into an adult
when they understood
the difference between
“I like you,” and
“I like like you.”
whispered into soft ears
from inexperienced children,
rather than the harsh murmurs
of abrasive teenagers.

I thought I had grown.
I thought I had grown.
As I looked into a mirror.
Thoughts swirling into
The abstracts of Picasso’s
Guernica.
Fifteen long years gone by,
And the bags under my eyes
Only seemed to get heavier
With the luggage filled with
Long forgotten memories
And distant whispers of
Childhood innocence.

Time is of sadness, people say.
Wailing about the ones gone under
And flipping through pages of
Faded photographs.
Time is of quickness, I thought.
I only had to look at my hands
To see the blisters
Existing on palms
That used to play with
Clenched fists of sand
And dreams.

Cynical.
That’s the label I had
Been identified with.
However,
I would like to think that
Through friendships broken,
merely mended with tape,
And the piling sketchbooks
That filled less with
Scratches of anguish
From led as fragile
As my bones,
My intentions of criticism
To the whirlpools in us all
Was simply ways of viewing
How despair left my heart
And returned to the soil.