There's something I don't know about myself
Whether I'm here or not
I've spent hours of the night before my table
Trying to write things before the burning candle and the woody table meet. But the more I write, the clearer I heard a voice saying "that's not me"
I cleaned many lines tore and threw many pages into bin. Sometimes I had to start all over again. The more I write, the clearer I heard a voice saying "that's not me"
"Who am I?" A question by myself for myself!
Those days by the ocean and some hot afternoons arguing with the sun crawled back into my heart and made a click in unison "You're a mystery" they said and posed.
Then, I could see myself in my own history. I had been distracted by some foreign events that my heart once MCed. "Forgive me myself" mumbled.
Aftermath, my pen could dance: I found my track on the paper and I painted out myself.
"So beautiful!" rang a pulse. I smiled and told myself how beautiful life becomes for people who discover themselves. We become so real when we become authors of our own histories.