I once dismissed it all as mere ink,
scribbled thoughts on pages, words in books,
lacking weight, void of breath, unaware,
never grasping the heart of poetry.
When you write, it blooms from love,
from sorrow, from fury, yet those truths felt alien,
the moments that reshaped me.
I never thought to write; I loathed it,
but now I see, it wasn't writing I resented,
but the feelings I held close,
the ones I struggled to voice,
the shifts that sculpted my being,
the emotions tangled within,
and how to share them, connect.
Yet telling others feels like a tempest,
like butterflies trapped within,
or a solitary night,
haunted by regrets,
by choices I never made or those I regretted.
It strips me bare, exposing my core,
as if they see the depths of me,
knowing me more than I know myself,
glancing in the mirror, seeing a stranger,
while they stand so sure,
calling me good, saying I shine bright—
but what is "good"? Do I know?
Is it my mind that deceives,
casting shadows, reminding me
of all I hide, all I’ve done?
Yet they love me still, for my flaws,
the cracks that carved my soul,
crafting me from the hurt I’ve caused,
and the wounds I carry,
the ones I’ve healed and the ones still fresh.
I never understood my love for poetry.
I’ve battled with self-loathing,
seeing only a stranger in the glass,
fearing the potential of what could be,
anchored in the now,
not merely existing, but learning to feel—
not just the sadness or anger,
but every shade of my heart,
accepting all of it without fear,
not trying to erase who I am
for the comfort of others,
but recognizing the distractions I’ve spun,
not realizing the pain I’ve fed myself,
believing I deserved it,
watching others dance in joy,
living in the moment,
not just surviving, but fully awake.
I ponder what it means to live,
never giving myself permission
to embrace my own life,
yet now I see poetry,
not just letters on a page,
but a tapestry woven from pain and love,
from sorrow and joy,
a melody of my emotions,
a way to understand and cherish myself—
not for who I think I am,
but simply for being here,
grateful, even if tomorrow fades away,
for the moments gifted to me,
the connections yet to be made,
the path of my own choosing.
Today, I’ll explore deeper,
allowing myself to feel,
beyond the numbness,
finding what I cherish,
understanding that hurt doesn't have to linger,
that I shape my own suffering,
resenting the unknowns,
the whys of pain that aren’t mine to hold.
No one warned me self-discovery would be a climb,
but I’ve unraveled a love for poetry,
though I’ve struggled with the right words,
the proper way to voice this truth,
to articulate feelings real and raw,
not merely pretending to be fine,
not wearing smiles for their sake,
yet I know I want joy,
want those late nights sprawled on grass,
with no need for words, just presence.
I longed for this,
silencing the voice that says
I don’t deserve such moments,
that questions who would care—
my thoughts race,
as I linger in silence,
staring at the sky,
yearning to float away,
but here I am, alone in the grass,
you were never truly there,
and now I write,
pouring out what I’ve held inside,
the words unspoken,
the feelings yet to be shared,
and as I sit,
just me, intertwined with my thoughts,
unearthing emotions I didn’t know existed,
wondering how to navigate this sea of feeling,
finding that speaking is even tougher,
so I remain here, pen in hand,
lost in the grass,
writing my truth
