Encounter me:

 

Do you believe in circumstance?

I came to the East in a quest,

Pushed forth by my love for the novel,

Though I feared I would not stand a chance.

 

Might you instead feel happenstance

Is reason enough for my fond

Belief in the power of a poem,

For my taste for the ink-letter dance?

 

Suppose there was a looking glass

That shone through the limits of time; would

This zeal for the written word need to

Correspond to a point in my past?

 

Sink into me:

 

When I was only five years old,

I learned of the sins men commit.

My mind was a butterfly yet

to egress the cocoon of my skull.

 

But fear developed yet, its brand

Still burning upon my left cheek;

And even without a reminder

Of the blows, all these memories stand.

 

I nurse a chronic sting, my friend,

I bleed through the tip of a quill.

Do tell me experience will grant 

me success, when my grief is all penned.

 

Believe in me:

 

 

I know that you don’t love me,

And I don’t expect that to change.

But bleed through my quill and then patch your wounds,

Only then will you know this plea.

 

past my death, or will none of my heart

break 

last?