Potential

I was a phoenix, age six,
Running riot in fields of green,
Feet on fire, a live wire,
the whole world to be seen.
~ 
I was on my front line, age nine,
Fighting my battles without hesitation,
A small fighter, burning brighter,
No plea for salvation.
~
I lost my heaven, age eleven,
As the walls came crumbling to dust,
A trembling lip, losing grip,
As my soldier’s sword began to rust.
~
My chest was a ravine, age fifteen,
Swallowing me up with every breath,
Closed eyes, dark skies,
Consumed by the thought of death.
~
An atlas for a brain, built by pain,
archives of maps to guide me through,
A traveller, an unraveller,
Weak hands painting grey skies blue.
~
There’s potential to achieve, as years unweave,
furiously relating to words I’m yet to write,
years to live, love to give,
my body itches to take flight.
~
Though the skies are grey, almost every day,
With colour the horizon is breaking,
The sun will burn, you will learn,
The world is yours for the taking.