Perception.

Perception matters. Don't invalidate without walking in the shoes they have laced.

I am from a mirror of elemental destruction, a split reality from your perception of fire and how i think of ice.
I am from the cerulean blue eyes of your forgotten time era, that consists and thrives today in those who do not fear impending judgement.
I am from the bland walls of the cage where my mind is a blank slate, where dark magic roams the dead memories of who you once were, and to be ivy again, you’re too late
I am from the screaming silence as the world around me reflects off of who i was and why i can’t bear to look down, as supposed to now.
I am from the pastel walls of the renovated home in which a family grew, laying down bittersweet for floors, and yet emotions and anxiety is how the youngest tore.
I am from the musty wood chips and the trees gleaming from what you believe sits in the clouds above where there’s an absence of fire or so you dream.
I was raised by the broken pine, long gone years before universes collided, visioning the broken needles, and long gone limbs, loving them like they are my own.
I am from raised ceilings at family gatherings, and from what is re-introductions to those who now sing, and the splinters from the wooden deck, held high and belonging to the mocha-stained house on the hill From mother and father, one sibling all of our emotions are made of clay
I am from the short hope of an ever-present anxiety lingering above what was to come, but that was unknown
I am from the “It will get better” and “Go to university.”
I am from the christmas music blasting as mementos are sorted, and vivid memories arise from their compartmentalized minds as white snow flitters to the grass, now icy.
I am from the pictures frames hanging on the wall, angel’s eyes staring back into my soul, energy being used trying not to make their fate my own.
I am from the smallest state, further from the city of light and a relentless emotion of manipulation where tall metal structures glisten majestically over the parisian horizon.
I am from the endless cassette tapes, small black tapes spinning as music now engraved in memories bursts from speakers.
I am from the blasting music of drums swaying into my ears, as black smoke arises from the once perfect memories now nothing but shards of hopeless glass.
I am from the beautiful petals of a rose, thorns still present, making something so beautiful, so violent.

Author's Note

Is this deep enough?