I should thank you
for drawing me out
of the comfort fields
of uncertainties

for forming garlands
out of festered flowers
to crown the scalp
that I am wearing,
and bowed

for making wine
out of muddied waters
to quench the thirst
of the illusioned

for bringing the breeze
to whisper sins
behind clasped hands

for gilding my supposed abilities
making me blind
to my own inadequacies
of speech, of experience

for fingering the bones
of sorrow and hollow
ribs a testament
of so-called starvation

for thrusting me in
the Janus-face of reality
that I abhor

for sowing the seeds
of dreams within
these same fields I tread,
planting these grains of doubts
and reaping me out

of these fields I want to call home --
the flatbed of buttons
popped during the throes
of childish anticipation

these fields I once called home
beckon me to rejoin
the roots where it was found
and plant my feet on the ground

but I am not heeding:
once I wished the earth
to swallow me up whole
and spew my spine up:
not letting me face
my own consequences.

Now I wish the same of you:
Let me once again
wallow in my own resentment
and live in my
shell of self-pity

then I could thank you
for carrying the burden
that is me:

I could
but I won't.