My life is like a poem on poem on paper
But the curves of each vowel are smudged
And the paper has been stepped on.
But by whom?

By broken friendships and
Loveless families
But mostly by myself.

My life is a poem on paper,
And I am the author and my pen is human flaw.
Sometimes I want to tear my paper to shreds

??Cause sometimes that seems like the only answer??
My words cry “read me” in a desperate attempt to be understood
And their tears leave themselves illegible due to their inky raw bruises.

My life is like a poem on paper
A poem afraid of misinterpretation from the illiterate.
And what kind of author can’t decipher her own writing?
What kind of author sells her work to the highest bidder?
A poem this lovely should be framed and not

crumbled at the bottom of my locker waiting to be thrown away?
After all, there is something tragically beautiful about honest words.

My life is a poem on paper
But the curves of each vowel are smudged
And the paper has been stepped on and I am a
Less
Than
Worthy
Poet.