This may sound dumb or weird, I\'m not really sure.
I don\'t know how to write, how to even rhyme—though it seems simple.
I don\'t know. I have no idea what I\'m doing or why I even try.
I let go of things so easily, but then my mind just cries.
I fell in love with so much, so many things.
But every time I got close to loving myself,
It felt like I was lying.
Weird how I started this poem, how I\'m talking to myself while writing on a screen.
It\'s really interesting how much we care about what others think.
My poetry may seem weird, dark, cruel, ugly
But even if you don\'t consider it lovely,
At least I\'m breathing.
Poetry is my mirror, and I can\'t seem to love myself.
So I write everything down when I feel ugly.
I don\'t know why I\'m like this or why I think so—
Especially when all I hear is yelling, but not from above.
Yeah, I fell in love—but not with me.
I fell in love with being able to breathe.
Being able to cry so very silently.
It\'s my world, my peace, my saving.
This may seem dumb or weird—I\'m not really sure how you see me.
But my poetry is my mirror,
And it\'s not all beauty.
It\'s trash. Some of it is stained with blood ink.
Some pieces have crumbled edges where I thought about tearing everything.
There are imperfections, uncertainties.
But then there\'s my breath—it\'s a feeling.
Poetry, my poetry, that I write every time I need to breathe.
I write because it\'s my mirror, my saving peace
Poetry, my poetry—it\'s so beautifully ugly.