Cliche

When I was still very young
I promised myself one thing
That I would never allow my life
To become a cliché
That I would make the most of it
Make it large
Make it a metaphor.
Indeed…….


So here I am now
Trying to form a picture
By putting together pieces
Bits and scraps of my life
Like a child figuring out the patterns
Of a broken, old kaleidoscope.
And what do I find
In that dark purple haze
Images that I cannot decipher
Memories that I cannot erase.
Forgotten dreams, forgiven whims
Winter, spring, summer, autumn
Twenty years of blood and sweat
Ten years of conscience
Seven years of puberty
Two years of dissonance
And two months' worth resurrection
For a lifetime of compliance.


I must make do with clichés
For metaphors are not at hand……..