Where I'm From

I am the pink, puffy eruption on the shiny cold floor.
I am small printed words others mistake for meanings.
I am like lemonade in the heat (Tall and cold but slightly melting)
I am the small reminders of errors and “What not to do.”

I’m the silence of death that surrounds you like pestering fog.
I’m the whisper girl and the one who does it all.
Chicken bits and small chucks of grass,
Lapping up water and silencing the begging repetitive bark.

I am from clothes flying over my head covering up one sister
And running around making up beds
I am from pages and pages of Oxford and the silent tap of verbs.
I am from what happens in this house, stays in this house
I am from bleeding fingers of the oak tree as my ancestors pick the
Fluffy white stuff I now have on.

I am from the cloudy lungs filled with fear of an event
That happened miles and miles from here.
I am from the fast generation tweeting like baby birds that have yet to fly.
I am the grimy, slimy spit on the bottom of a punk rocker’s shoe that carries on.
I am from the headstrong bull who charges (steaming mad and confused)

I’m from the word that whips my heart, leaving it raw and bleeding
Like they once did in Catfish state.
I’m from the rocking of two plates, rubbing, sliding and brushing against the waves.
I’m from the open fist of spoken word that covers their tracks.
I’m from the stuff that makes you feel like your living on a cloud that travels
Trough your screaming veins,
Drip drip drip, wasting away.