I’m not a writer

Simply an observer

Attuned to the outside world

That beats

And the inside world

That burns

In the short span

that has been nineteen years

I’ve seen the heights of compassion


and in some degrees, love

In the same way, I’ve seen brutality


And pain

In some degrees, some days

Outweighing the good in my life

But never enough to think

It would be gone forever

I’m not a writer, but a believer

That the things I think and feel

Have meaning, have purpose

And this life is even worth living

Without doubt, without pain

I cannot grow, or even know

That I am capable of metamorphosis

So many would rather be stagnant

but accepted

I would rather be neglected

And on the hourly, resurrected

In no way do I wish to die

Only that my fears and inhibitions

Do not prevent me

From living

5 thoughts on “Observations

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