I’m from the unsureness of childhood,

the significant unknown of my adult life still apparent.

Perhaps someday I’ll be confident enough,

ready for all that life throws at me behind my back.

I’m from attempting to stand

out,

trying to convince myself that my work reads

as noteworthy.

Perhaps someday I’ll learn to be proud

of myself.

I’m from the passion of art,

chasing the dreams my father never would.

Perhaps someday I can help him lasso his goals,

allowing him to get the experience he never could.

I’m from the putrid smell of burning food,

back when I wished to be a cook.

Perhaps someday I can make something that smells of joy,

like my mother can make.

I’m from a love of horror,

face fixed in s h o c k

andawe.

Perhaps someday I may release scares of my own,

film slowly becoming more than just a hobby.

I’m from words,

said over                            and over                      and over

again.

Perhaps someday I may find the words

to express myself properly, like a

book speaking to its reader through carefully chosen language.

I can wish all sorts of wishes,

but would any of them come true?

Perhaps so.

Perhaps not…

BUT

that’s just life for the youth of the world,

as we’re all from the unsureness of childhood.