I once wrote a book of poems,
From start to finish, fifty pages,
I was seventeen, young, innocent
The words poured from my soul
A never ending flood of emotion,
Beauty and passion,
My life began at seventeen
The real me came forth,
And yet, four weeks later, my bliss ended
The real me denied, my nightmare resumed,
It was a matter of survival,
Live a life of constant emotional pain
Abuse at the hands of those closest
To me, or dump ashes on my budding
Persona, smothering my youth’s attempt
To grow,
I had no choice, accused of the worst
Wretched offense, I gave in, gave up,
I denied my true nature, my true self
Consumed in a bonfire, I watched my
Fifty pages go up in smoke, my penance
For one month of freedom, One month
Of discovering who I truly was, and am,
It was decades later that I fully embraced
What I learned at seventeen,
No further atonement, no denial,
The beauty within me allowed to resurface,
The bud became a flower, the flower
A growing bush, blossoming, thriving,
Never more contained with chains of fear,
I am who I am and who I’ve always been
For that I am grateful, now I am complete,
And so I say to all who find a gift, a beauty within,
Embrace it, love it, enjoy it but do not deny it,
For with the squelching of that passion growing within you
Comes a price,
A price your youth cannot understand,
For to negate your innermost being is to forsake
Your true nature and forever live a life less than whole,
And to never know your true ability to feel, to love and be loved,
Instead your life will be forever tainted, that special, unique piece
That makes you who you truly are, missing,
The life you are living,
A fraction of who you were meant to be.
Copyright 2015
