Italy was my home turf
for many year we battled each other
a grudge match where getting whiskered up
by the celerity of years
anger was never enough
transboarding to my eyes
I refused to stay unperceptive
I covered my eyes with a red bandage
I opened them, I was walking through my self
across the apogee of my search
my milieu was mille feuille-made hills
beaches of sunny promises
I wanted to be a writer, and not to talk to anyone
Emily Dickinson’s lost lines
a father better than mine
a mother like my own, recombined
through the lyrical hug of my mistakes
my confession
is that I’d rather be a creator
than a flickering flame
giving up on wind
I can handle my imperfection
I wouldn’t be able to pass on evanescence