Lily

your lack of culture astounds me; tell me Lily, i know,

you have your own wounds carved from the childhood

that strangled you, but why do you scrap the border

of my reality under the manicured nails you keep blood

red, regularly. Lily, mother, honey (i think it was you called

me), you told me i was too literal but you’ve yet to read

a damn ounce of my poetry. it’s ’cause of you i’ve decided

that the lines on my hands are destinies i’ll never reach;

because you keep pulling the fantasies and dreams like a rope

around my neck; so Lily, why can’t i be free to breathe easy?

i refuse to draw the line of balance; don’t you know impurity

is a balance of these times i’ve decided to call modern art? no,

Lily, you’re naive, blind too it seems; cause my skin’s the color

grey and i painted it out of metaphorical meaning. so please,

stop preaching your false religion as though it’ll save me from

becoming my own somebody; 10 years they’ll call me a writer,

even if, Lily, right now you don’t even know i crafted a soul

out of writing words and typing the bold things i’d never speak.

yes, Lily, you’re right about my bravery; it crumbles when

you’re within feet of me.