The Fortune

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.  

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