Hoarders

Twas me 18 years back!
A little poet

I have always kept my exam papers from the past closed into my drawer
Most of them are math and applied science
I do not even dare to flip them through
Instead I let them sleeping still
Occupying the small room inside the tiny cabinet
Only because of there are highlights
Made out of red crosses and strokes
Which reminds me of my incompetence
To fulfill their expectations
I cannot reach with my handful
Even though I have opened my palm wide enough to feel the stretch of my fingerbones
I am still unable to accommodate

There are always spare of clothes in my big bag I carry to the office
And a pair of sport shoes and sandals
My heels and flatshoes are waiting under my office desk
This is how I walk my life everyday in synchronization
This is how I live, head under water
I am catching every single of molecular oxygen left
Pumping them all into my lungs
Racing my way back to the surface with my body
Built without fin and gill
Only to resume to the land
Trying not to feel almost dead and ill

There is at least one spare of clothes I keep on my bag
I need to catch spinning class at 6.40
I begin to question how does the resolution even started
Why do I care
If anyone is going to run a circle of measuring tape
to my hips
Why do I care
If the truth is I want to keep my weight as it is
Because I believe a little bit of lump on the lovehandles
Will frighten boys and their ideals
Why do I care about all that
If in the end
I still want to be kissed
And long for a bit of touch

My unwashed praying mat and clothes are always laid down before my bed
I hardly miss 5 prayers a day
Though I am trying so hard to perfect them
I count how much I have taken, and how little I have given to my belief
I count how far the distance I have created between me and Him
Of unforgivable discovery and self-learning
That sway against the stream
How I wish I am granted a little more time to redeem

There is always a tray full of poems
Open or close
Subtle and prominent
Printed or screened
As a reminder that
There is still a part of me that is ingrown
Not heading to everyone else's direction
A still part of me I devoutly cherish
It never fails my identity

Note : My mom found a picture of little me reading poem, it was just in time before I joined my poetry workshop.  So this poem is about this.  Having an organic passion and direction towards poem when every aspect of my life are touched by others.  Words and poems, even though, I am not the best, are growing naturally.