Made of Light
some people just lit up for some reason, and that reason is what most of us wake up everyday wanting to have instilled. not the wanting. not the waking. But the instillation of light, which we call pure, rather an entity not subjection. I could cry many ways, scream in vacuum, shut down my voice box, but where I keep what I wish to have, is where what I have not but keep at, by one mean and pray it is. I was born, told of the light in me, though in a language I yet not succumb. I was born lit up. We all had it. We all lost it.
Then we look up, praying for the stars, no matter how far to hit us back to whole.













