Make Me Proud

I remember you saying to me, "Tell me something about yourself that'll make me proud."

I remember racking my brain through lonesome nights trying to come up with an answer for you.

How was I supposed to tell you that I found contentment in typing the final full stop of the last line of a poem?

How was I supposed to tell you that my mind attained peace by running off to an island surrounded by an ocean with more depth than you?

Where the salty breeze would send stray strands of my hair onto my face,

Where my inquisitive mind was tamed and never questioned what was beyond my line of sight,

Where I could finally feel my thoughts and not just hear them,

Where I could shed tears to a slow melody or a fast-paced ballad,

Where the calming laps of the ocean were in sync with my heartbeat,

And I could fall asleep to the sunset with words on my lips.

How was I supposed to tell you that my biggest trophies were my words? 

And those same words would be the cause of my destruction.

The words which penned themselves when I couldn't comprehend the pain radiating throughout my body.

The words which ran across the page when I was brimming with emotions while writing you that letter.

The words which hesitated to even complete themselves when I knew I was making a mistake.

How was I supposed to tell you that a couple of minutes to allow my consciousness to dance across a page felt intangible?

How was I ever supposed to make you proud?

I've never had a wall filled with medals or plaques like you.

I've never been able to mark my achievements or worth by a grading system.

But I have been able to compose a thing or two of what my chaotic soul goes through.

So here I sit, fingers crossed, hoping that's enough for you.