i am neck-deep in a quagmire, my mind is a 

gallery holding the dire portraits of my life

on my flesh, pain has made scars and 

incisions that even time cannot heal

here my shadow keeps opening doors i 

have shut, my mind keeps playing a saudade

call my body a home ransacked by storm, abode

of a stranger birthed on the christening of death

i have tried to live under broken roofs, build 

my shelter in the heart of a homeless man 

i have tried to fold into myself, make

home out of the cleft of my mouth 

i took a trip from pain but was trailed by 

pain and its companion, grief 

is pain not the after-taste of pleasure 

when life itself is fighting to strike a balance 

a little dose of pain and a pint of happiness, life

is a  proper fraction, but i try to tweak the figures

today, i am the woman building a home 

with scars and stories, call me the seer 

tomorrow, i will build another 

with songs and the wings of butterflies

ABOUT THE AUTHOR