I wish I can piece together my prophecy,
a fortune teller told my mother that there are
treasures of riches for me.
The blueprint is with her.
My father, the mechanic, pours the blood that keeps my engine tuned.
And with the time he offers,
at my coming of age I will be primed for adapting and prospering
from the effort and weight I put on my shoulders.
The older I get, the more the pain aches
as the mileage on the treads of my feet begin to wear down.
Or the bar continues to elevate to higher heights,
and the feeling of my meniscus shredding in my knees
have me reaching and waving to remedy
the anxiety of drowning.
Of my two-halves, I wish I were greater than the demons
manifested from every thought
that I put down and shelved,
molding, out of my complete fear of shedding light on it.
Each scar that sticks, the itch burns deeper
begging my inner self to release the suffering.
The self-inflicted wounds,
ruin the vision, the scheme and temptations,
miscalculating every effort that was ever put in.
Over the distance, in the horizon.
I fear when the sun finally rises as I lay day-dreaming,
and the ashes and unburnt tinder fall beside me,
I awake in front of a mirror with nothing but the skin on my face becoming wiser.