Art in Action
I Come From
I come from the trash, the garbage, the murky gray, the hidden places I’d rather not say.
I come from spending early years in the noise, the loud voices, the clutter of broken toys.
As I grew, my heart broken, overheated and boiling my blood.
I was destruction, calamity and regrets made real by silence and my own ill intentions. Now I hesitate on my own reflections.
So, sorry for my mad mind, my broken heart, and my axe to grind. I’ve never been one to forgive so I can’t forget myself. Stuck in the rut, locked behind a door not yet shut.
I come from these ill begotten words and an acceptance of their lack of meaning in a purpose I see reseeding.
I don’t live in the past just as I don’t own a time machine to visit the future. So I’ll never understand what it really means. Only to accept what I’ve done and the truth of where I really come from.