If you ask my mother how old I am, she will tell you I have lived two decades.
Now, you will have no cause to question her for she was the vessel in which I was formed. Blade scars on her stomach are evidence of the chaos that was my birth, of course, you would believe her when she speaks my age.
You see, my mother and I have one thing in common, our scars.
Hers from the blade, jagged lines on her skin the price of her part in my creation.
My scars run a little deeper than my mother’s
for these are the scars that one is born with,
a reminder of the chaos that I wrought,
glimpses of my past lives bleeding into this new infancy.
My mother will tell you that I have lived two decades and she would be incorrect
for I have lived 3000 lives in these two decades, hundreds of thousands before that.
I’ve lost you, haven’t I?
You see, I have been the Romeo to someone’s Juliet,
given myself to a love so deep it hurts, brought kings to their knees,
seen the rise and fall of empires.
I am the villain in a hundred stories and the hero in some,
with the turn of every brown page,
I start a new life.
A life I know nothing about,
much like my current one,
I am tossed and turned
letting myself be carried through every chapter for I am nothing
but a character.
Just like my mother, I am a vessel
Over and over again, I live, I laugh,
I love, I die and begin again
with a new title.
You can say I was born to be an artist
for I am a bearer of many stories.
You can call me a good poet
for I carry the stories that you need to hear,
a plethora of them.
For that is what being a poet means,
carrying and teaching,
giving and giving again,
feeding souls unaware of their hunger
pouring into them.
This is my purpose,
this is my peace.
