There is a little girl inside my heart,
With fluffy, curly hair,
Who is always giggling and laughing,
Always smiling, searching for joy.
There is a scowling pessimist, too,
With a glare sharp and cold as ice,
Who protects herself with knife-sharp words,
Always fearing the worst, and overreacting.
And who could forget the sociable one,
With her mouth moving slightly faster than her brain, but confidence to make up for it,
Who is always making friends, trying to be nice,
Always the bubbly extrovert.
But her twin, the insecure introvert, keeps her in check
With her quiet eyes drawing back into herself, like a turtle to its shell,
Who really would rather be reading or writing than be with people,
Always second guessing herself, scared to be who she wants to be.
There's the creative me, too,
The one who can take all of the emotions-- good and bad-- and twist them into words, into a tangible form,
The one who ties all of them together,
The one who demands to be heard, to be felt, all without speaking a single word.
Always dreaming or imagining or writing or believing in something better.
There are so many parts to myself, all with good and bad parts,
So many more than I can list-- dorky me, family me, spiteful me-- all with their own loves and fears,
But I love them all, for giving me strength; confidence; a smile; a dream; hope even when there is none, just because I know that time will help and heal and know that things will get better.
They all make up the person I am today, and help me recognize who and what I am-- a daughter, a sister, a friend, an enemy, a poet, a smiler, beloved, and most of all, a force to be reckoned with.
Spent typing in the dark,
Vibrations streaming to my ears,
Words made of letters and sentences made of words,
Words that I created.
There's power on being a writer--
You can create worlds, people, ideas--
You can build people up, make them feel like they're among the stars,
Or you can tear them down, make them feel six inches tall.
I like to think I use the pen for good,
That I help build others up,
That I create beauty from the same 26 symbols,
And I know just how much those tiny symbols can tear into you,
How they can make you feel alone, and tiny--
And so I like to help people back on their feet.
My friends know the power of words,
And they help too.
If I couldn't write, I wouldn't be me.
I'd smile less,
I'd see only the black and white, not the shades in between,
And I'd never be able to do anything about concepts and questions in my head.
So thank you for the words,
Thank you for the laughter,
Thank you for illuminating my world.
A strip of light I don't want to see.
A smooth surface, broken underneath.
Rolling tears and derisive laughter,
Emptying words; "There's no Happily Ever After".
Red and blue don't always make purple,
"I love yous" can break hearts too.
Empty lines, uniform and strange,
Unspoken words, clamoring for a page.
A misshapen pen, the blue of the sky,
A shattered reminder that some birds never fly.
Accusatory words, with an empty "sorry",
A useless bandage plastered with "it's okay."
Echoing melodies, flat and pale--
Still haunting my head--
They won't let me be,
They can't let me breathe.