The biting exchange of night into morning is here.
I lay coldly, intertwined in crimson sheets and tangled hair.
Awake from a daze into the new day,
I know these moments are rare.
Reality is pulsing through my veins.
Bittersweet and lukewarm droplets of water fall,
I lean my restless body against the fiberglass wall.
The water begins to wash away previous days,
My cynicality of morning fades.
Staring back in the fogged mirror,
I see my 17 years.
The progression from naivety to beauty in reality is clear.
I remember scuffed knees and cheap ribbon awards,
And how my self-deprecation was my most important accord.
Angsty teenage years had left my motivation in fear.
Mornings were once a chore,
I felt as though I had nothing to give anymore.
Life felt mundane,
A never ending Monday.
Brain, why feel this way?
For I to embrace another day was blind at bay.
The abyss of morning was constant, yet
Deep inside, I knew I was still here,
I scrounged in my exhausted soul,
To feel another day.
As a child of lonesome dreams,
I yearned to express my psyche.
I began to travel the seams of my soul.
I felt the rigidness of canvas,
And loose paint create the images of my psychological cold.
Slowly, I could feel the valley of my mind incline.
The purpose to wake in the morning became invitingly clear.
I no longer woke with tears,
But with paint strokes on my cold skin, and eraser remains near.
At last, the birth of morning invited the death to my loathing daze.
Today, I am an abundance of crimson sheets and tangled hair.
It is a new page,
I will find the beauty in rage.
I am at peace,
and I yearn to paint a world for others to fare.
I am happy, I am here.