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.