By giving your hate, lust, greed to me,
you can’t change, redefine, transform,
or undo what is essentially me.
The shower of your scorn off balances me,
That’s natural,
But I’m not a product of
what you do,
Yes, the bushfire of your lust
burns my luxuriant canopy,
But there are seeds under the ashes,--
the carriers of my legacy;
the seeded me;
the tiny container of my fundamental code.
It just takes some time
for the rains to wash away the ashes;
for the sun to kiss infant saplings,--
the little me pampered by mother nature,
And the small me will be a full me some day.
I’m inching closer to that reality
from the nightmare you’ve held me in;
from the prison of self-loath, anger, helplessness
to the beautiful grove of love and light.
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