yejunee

my words come out as dandelions. 
golden wisps of stardust and sunlight and wild 
i speak, carried by my breath, 
do not listen when others tell me to stop. 

i suppose that if this is true 

i feel sometimes that life had an orientation 
i somehow missed 
and that is why i trip 
where others run. 

it's not that hard. 

my childhood was spent in words 

i am a stranger in my own room. 
who owns these books? 
it's been forever since i read them. 
doodled constellations on homework scraps 
scatter my desk and 
i sweep them into the trash 

black hole: a region of space having a gravitational field so intense that no matter or radiation can escape. 
black holes are a scientific mystery 
the skeletons of stars 
burned out 

my mother is a thunderstorm 
and i have always loved the rain 
molten silver and gold kintsugi sky 
art in the making 
a creation of destruction. 

my mother is a thunderstorm