finn mott

Drifting in the Wind

I am scared 
to touch
the world
I am supposed to
explore.

Instead I walk
without gravity

Cracked Knuckles

My knuckles stained
with blood,
cracked from the pressure
to be sanitary.

My skin too tight,
Threatening to tear,
Palm clenched.

The world has
been cracked by COVID.

The gentle palm of the world,
remains tightly tortured.

My Truth

Demanded
to cover
identity.

Original voice
ferociously filtered.

Concealed smile,
Tears distinctly displayed.

Little do they know,
I have worn a mask
for years.

Dandelion

Surrounded by blades
Threatening to slice,
A glimpse of hope.

Desperate for light,
to open its heart.

Locked into a life,
unchosen.

Dominated by greed.

A weed
it was born to be.

Doesn’t mean,
it can’t bloom.

Bruised not Broken

My legs are bruised
from the needles that pierce 
my skin. 

Every night I question, 
whether my pain will
be recognized. 

I struggle to survive
the reality dealt

Knowing sometimes
that I may become bruised,
and believing I will never
be broken.

Healed Hands

Our grip
upon reality
exhausted.

Our grip
among each other
intensified behind
bonding adversity.

Time may make
our fingers slip
but there will
always be somebody there to,
catch our fall.

My hands
may have been wounded,
but they will never be worthless.