Before I Knew Better
Before I knew better, I use to think life was a cup of coffee. I had only to drink from it to know the world, every leaf, sapling tree, skyscraper. I suppose everything seems rudimentary when you are only a girl, much younger than birds. A small girl concerns her self with coloring books and fancy ribbons. She doesn't understand purpose, the gravity of future? I always thought I had destiny caught between my thumb and nail, tucked neatly under my arm like newspaper. And someday, when I was ready, I could gather it from beneath my pouch of arm and began to build my evenings the way I imagined it.
In my dreams, night is an island -- feverishly lit by fireflies; hairs on my head fall placidly upon my breast. I am cultured, more than rain allows me to be. Mom said that to her, I would always be a daffodil. That if I were committed, I could be sky if I wanted. But I didn't realize that winter had other plans for dreamers like me. For it punctured my avenues, crack opened my yellow brick road. And there were no manuals for these kinds of circumstance.
Upon receiving my diploma -- college had so much promise. But somehow, I managed, to slip like fog from hours, compile four plus years of university; still, I'm here, crouched in a silent room, peeling paint off walls that don't want to be clean. After high school and years of planting, this was not what I expected.