Writings Poetry

Autobiography at 17

She was born as the ewe
Who draws fake tattoos
On the back of her hand,
Over her beating heart.
She loves the color of calm
And is obsessed with drawing trees.
Sometimes, the ewe becomes the monkey,
And sometimes a mirror cracked
And sometimes a dull knife
And sometimes the occasional waterfall.
She loves the subtle
And likes to see what is behind
And is attracted to the unhappy
And loves stories of life.
Why are miracles ‘miracles’
If they happen every day?
And despite all these, “This is not me.”
Because a decade and a half spent in the desert
Does not make a journey.
And one day, she will become a tree.