I am November eleventh.
Muted. Grey. Orange and red.
Chaos reckoning the silence.
I’m just some kind of disaster.
Not waiting to happen,
But currently happening.
Traces of my manic heart
Are left in skin and bones.
I am not optimistic, goodness,
Nor an easy conversationalist.
Reserved, overwhelmed, emotional.
I’m not what they call desirable,
I have too many faults.
I use to call it passion.