I am from my mother’s womb,
From the memories that I breathe in, buried in grief.
Nonetheless, sleep, like a murky river, washes away
The bloody stones.

I am from broken racquets,
Long forgotten in the dark abyss of the closet.
From the pastel-stained fingertips,
Marking a multi-colored trail along the once ivory walls.

I am from the waif buried inside of me,
Enclosed in its suffocating tomb,
As I escape from my chrysalis of sorrow,
Metamorphosing into a butterfly.

I am from the unwritten melody of words,
Each haunting note spilling out of my half-opened lips.
From the cascade of the piano,
Caressing my ears.

I am from the living, in a world shrouded in depression,
Oblivious, as they search for happiness.
One day I will be from the dead; just a soft reverie that will fade,
Leaving you with only a few broken memories.