I have a collection,
Hidden in my chest, stuck in my throat,
Deep in my lungs, sitting on my fingers.
A collection of all my words, all my titles,
The crowns and roses they gave me,
Set in stone around my heart.
Some are as old as my first sound,
My child, my heart, my love,
They took their place long ago.
All the nicknames of my grandpa,
And the absence of everyone else,
The lonely child and the old man.
Some took their knives and left scars,
Freak, stupid, weird, useless, scary,
Is it from them or are they mine?
Let's dance in the fire, angry child,
Close your eyes and let yourself cry,
When Death knocks on your door, please say no.
Is it where hiding became necessary?
Treasure chest under my tongue, behind my eyes.
No word will cut, no word will come.
Let's play pretend, let's smile and nod.
Oh hurting child, grieving child, desperate child,
Stop craving the stone and come home.
An eye contact, a handshake, a laugh,
And the world turned upside down.
New words on the bookshelf, and a light.
Friends, and the child smiles once again.
Death came knocking, but never got the chance to enter.
Joy is messy and complicated, but dawn is rising.
A wooden scene, too loud music, and finally belonging.
A book came my way, full of words telling me who I am.
Strange things from others,
Smart, creative, kind, caring, curious, good.
The shock of these words, the warmth of my soul,
Oh child, here's your truth.
Family is my crown, and I am your servant.
People that I will kill for, hidden anger,
Hidden ache rising at their cries for help.
For them, stay strong, stay calm, keep everything inside,
Don't let them be hurt, don't hurt them,
And quietly, secretly, don't let them hurt you.
Over the years, I've collected a lot of words,
Brother and son, dork and sunshine, brave and strong.
The strangest of all is mysterious.
Maybe it's keeping things close, feelings and thoughts always in check.
It is funny, an open book impossible to read,
Even the author doesn't know the code.
Maybe hiding is not necessary anymore,
Maybe it is the morning and I can open the window.
Maybe I should take all my words,
Remove the dust sitting on them,
And decorate my house with them.
Invite people to stay, and give them a tour.
I have a collection,
Hidden in my chest, stuck in my throat,
Deep in my lungs, sitting on my fingers.
A collection of all my words, all my titles,
The crowns and roses they gave me,
Set in stone around my heart.
