My poetry sucks.

To you, that is.

To me, it is a perfect expression of the words I can't find words for. It is many sleepless nights made worthwhile. It is art to me; it is my soul poured out on a sheet of paper and made immortal.

But to the rest of the world, it is only a girl's feelings.

That is okay.

It will be beautiful to you, too, when you have lived my life, when you have grown up here, made music here, found your calling here, saved lives here
sweated here
bled here
hated here
cried here
wanted here
struggled here
slept here
sang here
danced here
breathed here
loved here
lived here