People say I'm an angel,

like I don't have a battle or needs,

because I put others before me

and turn my cheek to greed.

 

They respond that I'm an angel,

like it'll stagger the emotional bleed,

because I struggle to make it through the day

 when major depression plants its seed.

 

But I don't want to be known for either—

not known for clinical depression or

that prescribed angelic veneer.

 

I want to be known for my contributions—

the book of things I write for you to read;

about the ribbons of joy and the hounds at my feet.

 

I want to be known for my aspirations

and my inner burning fire,

that both feeds the choir of angels,

and wrestles the black abyss of ire.

 

The less mechanical things,

 that refuse the surface glean;

The free-flowing elements

 that wash the filters to the ocean,

 

 and leave the perfect foundation

for the imperfect foundation of me.