I’m still poor.

In the far horizons of my existence, there where I contemplate my future and the vestiges of my obscure and incomplete past, I beg most of my questions. I confirm assumptions with illusions about my perception of the truth. I dig deep into my innermost insecurities and fears about my ineptitudes that render me poor. Dry. Wasted. Done.

And as I, sojourn, in the lounge of my chaotic setting, I ponder and brainstorm about my humanity and what aspects of it I will never love (again).

My soul is rusty and the vignettes of my life only reflect a portion of the shame I turned into celebratory moments. 

I invariably think about sacrificing myself to a version that is more accepting and accommodating than the self that continuously spews polemic undertones of my imperfect reality.

I’m still poor because my unwarranted proclivities still shackle me to a mentality that is self-enclosed. I am under-resourced in faculties of myself that inhibit me from embracing all the elements that could heal me.

My inability to show gratitude for the little comfort in my heart is my protest against inadequacy that is laced in guilt but is embraced as a milestone. 

Guys.