It was a welcomed mess
A necessary byproduct of the insistence of seeking beauty
Tired hands stained with paint
Color the picture with no worries
Finding comfort in its morphed depiction
Willing to bear the pain of its creation
A path paved by neediness is doomed to fail
But I walked down that road
And smiled when I saw the flowers of hope
that adorned the side of the road
Sprung from the seed of fantasy
I stopped, and still, I smiled when I lowered myself to the dirt
I smiled when I breathed and inhaled the perfume of potential
A fragrance so strong it lingers on your skin
So strong it lingers on your skin, in your mind, on your lips
Preventing you from smelling the fresh air of reality
Potential is funny like that
My belief in and love of possibilities is dangerous like that
Dangerous in the sense that it is a slow death
The absence of fresh air
It is a tragic death
The resentment of reality
Self-made intolerance, oh so subtle, you won’t notice until it’s far too late
And you bear the pain of your own making
The pain of self-made intolerance
The scar of what could have been
Tired hearts stained with time eat dangerous lies like that
Feast on fantasy
Gobble them up until it thinks it’s full
Swallow them whole until there are no more holes to fill
But the truth is tired hearts can’t get full off of lies
It was a welcomed mess
Until all it was, was just a mess
And the paint that stained tired hands
No longer looked so pretty
Kayla Tate
Kayla Tate is a lover of good books, good people, and black empowerment. Her work is inspired by all three.
