I want to write an image poem and give you slices of who I am.

But first, I must put on my mask,

And I must hide myself from the scars of innovation. 

From this generation of hate and anger,

Besides the cradles of the other children of this ward.

Then I must visit the darkness where I was before. 

Perhaps I will go back to how I was.

The happy, mischievous me.

The subtle and cold me.

The innovative me. 

(The one who wouldn’t stop stress eating)

Perhaps all these things will help me remember

Those days where I knew how to be good.

Then I must run towards the frightened children.

I must see why they scream.

Where my family doesn’t understand me. 

Where the children don’t dare venture.

Where the darkness festers and grows.

And the gears of innovation begin to turn.

Perhaps all these things will help me remember

My reasons to keep going.

Then I must move on,

As the rest of my peers stay behind.

Where I learned to act mature.

Where I met my savior.

Where I played with him in the darkness,

That seemed to truly be a bright light.

Perhaps it has to be this way.

Because the machinations of innovation never cease to amaze me.

And upon arriving back in my shattered cell,

I will find the forgotten dreams of the ones left behind.

And the gears of innovation stop.

So I lay in my own sorrow,

Besides the blood, tears, and broken promises