I celebrate myself, and sing myself.
The words on my paper show meaning.
The thoughts in my head tell a story but
only for the ones who dare to listen.
My writing has made me the girl I am today
But when I’m alone I’m a different person.
Tap ... tap … rustle ... rustle.
The sound of my pencil against the table.
The sound of my words against a new crisp paper.
My writing is like the music I listen too.
While some call it trash I believe its beauty.
Behind my insecurities.
Behind my sadness.
Hides the real sensitive me.
The ones who cries at the simplest word of hate.
The one who pretends she's okay because she's to scared to ask for help.
Afraid of what everyone might think if I were to speak up.
The one who's afraid to stick out in a crowd.
This is me.
The real me.