Branching Out

I'm fascinated by people who've got themselves all figured out. With cemented opinions and fixed fashion tastes, they seem so...complete? Like polished furniture, lofty in it's purpose with it's position nailed into the floorboard. Me? I'm more freshly-cut wood, still piled up in a cart, undecided and covered in splinters. I could be a table, I daydream. Balanced, standing strong on my own legs. Or the support for a lamp shade, bathed in the soft glow.                                                                                         
But I don't know, you know? I'm yet to live more of life, stumble into mistakes, meet people of every race and shake hands with dark fates.

I see all these beautiful people. They all look different, but they all have breath-taking beauty and I question what is it about their poems that seem so poetic and what is it about their voice that drowns out my monkey mind. And I realise. I love them because they love them.

I've been watching the wrong tutorial, wishing upon a burning planet instead, instead of knowing that to be a whole me, I must and I should listen to my own poetry, until my skin is varnished yet the perfect echo of my source tree. And beyond it all, being my own lover is the final call.

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