I told myself I could fit the world
like jigsaw pieces, shattered
By the hand of an unruly parent
shouting at a small child
Angry at his obsession with
Fixing things back in their place.
I could even be the melody
droned on and on by a lonely
kid, sitting in the corner of
a graveyard. But dead memories
were not what I could be
Some deranged, bedraggled devil
Sporting dark eyes and a ravenous
smile. And hair that echoes midnight
complete with a silver moon that
yearns for the touch of the sun.
I could be everything.
The sand, the foam, the window
where the sun beat down its fury
Yet I was nothing.
I had no place in paradise or purgatory.
What happens when you try to fit the world? When you try to be something you’re not? This account tries to explain the turmoil in a symbolic way.