his poems,

his stories. 

something about his drawings,

his shading,

so simple,

but an idealist. 

 

so I wanted to be just like him,

years ago, younger than seven. 

I'd watch science videos contemplating the difference between human evaluation and heaven. 

listen through his door

just to hear him play video games

thinking that the next time I played

I can win the exact same way. 

and I went back to his sketch book

to see if my mind can drift away. 

 

so, he sat me on a counter in the kitchen

said from now on that will be our studio but first I would have to listen

and the rules were to stare at the object that was given

then carefully draw each shade from straight to perfection. 

 

and I realized all these years,

just because I couldn't understand you doesn't mean I should've feared,

the real world that is cruel,

could make anyone burst to tears

and it took me years to understand

why I was taught to be forgiving,

speak with demand. 

to be a strong woman in this society,

and the only hand I shall hold is my brothers hand

 

there was something about his letters,

his drawings,

his tone. 

how he listened, 

rarely spoke. 

ideas that were always told

never unrealistic,

just utterly bold. 

 

so simple but an idealist. 

always knew where my future is. 

and it's still taking me years to understand,

how I got a good head on my shoulders was because,

I only held my brothers hand.