Prena Poetry

i could never live in any of the worlds offered to me; the patrimonial word of my family, the world of my friends, the world of my own people and politics and prosperity. i could never belong to anywhere—even on the wasteland in between my very longings and nostalgia. i had to fabricate a world of my own—like a planet, like a atmosphere, like a comfortable bed where where i could softly fall asleep without having to work every thought to its death. and that was the most beautiful work of art but also a brutal act of survival.