Willow Silvera

November 11, 2005-Connectcuit
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The Maps
Filled with criss-crossed
Broken lines and the spaces in
Loosely covering
The pale green
walls of my room.
Sheltering the cracks
Shaped by forgotten dreams
And lost memories
Finding their way back home
The maps will sometimes
Lead them along a path
Before releasing them back
To the place they were first born.

The Maps
Are more than just
“Pieces of paper”
They are my future
My hopes and dreams
I drew them with my blood
And plastered them onto my faded
Walls with my scarred hands
And broken fingers
They encapture the pathways of my
Veins and the
Flow of my thoughts

The Maps
Are what will help me
Become who I want to be
And get where I want to go
They are aged, and worn
They’ve been spit on by society
And ripped to shreds by the demons
Corrupting this place
But I’ve taped them back together
For hours on end
These Maps,
Are my life source
My light
When there is none
The candescent hope
Giving me strength
When nothing else can.
I will endlessly follow them
Till I lose my last breath.
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