The pain to figure out who I am
has never been so dire.
Who am I? Am I the lyre?
In each step, each rhythm,
I see the words collapse into each other,
but I don’t know where they come from
or where they’re meant to go.
And I shouldn’t care,
because each melody strummed
will find its place somewhere.
I have no clue why
I’m always singing off-key,
but that doesn’t matter in life—
when the rhythm is your heartbeat.
And that’s why my poetry
is often rhythmically lame,
and perhaps makes no sense.
But it makes sense to me,
because it is my rarity.
Who I am is who I choose to be—
the lyre of my own heart’s melody,
an off-key metronome, but it’s my home,
with crooked still frames,
portraits of my memories,
and memories to be,
being sung by my heartstrings,
creating my own harmony.
I’ve turned my pain into art,
and that’s why it’s such an imperfect piece—
because that is who we are,
who we’re meant to be.
We’re an imperfect puzzle
that will find its peace in completion,
piece by piece, until all there is
is a memory of perfection.