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.