It Takes A Legacy To Ruin Everything

They see the world through a darker lens,

The cynics who view themselves as pawns in a neverending chess game;

My foes who tell me that one day

I will be as pale and lifeless as the moon and stars,

For in their black and white eyes, I am nothing more than

yet another colorless thread embedded in the universe’s core,

Devoid of any intricacy like a blank document on Google Docs.

Firmly rooted to the roller coaster that is life, 

Screaming for air

Whilst deprived of oxygen.

But where they see flickers of flame, 

I see glimmers of hope,

Perhaps it has something to do with my name,

Isn’t it funny how one word can make all the difference?

Three syllables meaning “creator of life.”

Sweet and flowery when spoken by strangers

Yet strangely enough, cruel and twisted when voiced by my kinsmen

And now I am a friend to Life,

And an adversary of Death,

Neither blessing.

Nor curse.

A burden.

For I was given this name under harsh expectations

Placed upon me by my immigrant parents, 

In their impaled vision, my name is a symbol of hope for the family legacy

And it takes everything in me to fight the guttural scream threatening to claw its way out of my throat, 

As I unwillingly sit on this pedestal glazed with glamor.

For who am I if I cannot make them proud?

But nevertheless,

There will always be a part of me

That is a lover.

A dreamer.

And a believer.

The girl full of aspirations,

Who scatters dandelion seeds to the winds,

And dreams of being consumed by pure, awe-inspiring love

Free from the infinite expectations

That plague me in my sleep,

And haunt me in my dreams.

Many sunsets past I remain present in the haven that is Earth,

And all I can think of is Juliet, a girl after my own heart.

“What’s in a name?”

I cannot help asking myself that very question.

I am forever destined to be a creator,

And encumbered to weave achromic threads into masterpieces

I know what they say in concealed whispers;

And perhaps they are right.

Maybe I am simply nothing but a colorless thread intermingled with the universe’s infinite cycle of birth and death.

And an untitled document on a computer screen

And will I never amount to anything more carrying my legacy forward under the prejudiced gaze of my “loved ones?”

Well, that is the question

But perhaps this one time,

The artist can be the muse.

And there will be a splash of color in dark infinity

Before the skyscrapers in our fragile cities,

Come c r u m b l i n g

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