It was what welcomed digression and rambles on imperfections without discrimination.

Her fears of the unknown,

Her uprising anxiety,

Her heart-breaks,

Got released and put in the folds and lines of what she depended on.

It was an unfamiliar feeling that felt so familiar.

Her adolescent strokes,

Her growing desires,

Her active emotions.

It was similar to touching her own heart.

Her mute canvas,

Her voluntary dependence,

Her need to release it all.

It was a need for self-expression but orally was futile.

Her powerful vehemence,

Her undeniable comfort,

Her trust.

It was

An unbreakable habit,

An introverted fear of being heard but wanting to be heard.

An unwavering amount of confidence and freedom.

It was my substance.

Baby girl, it was writing poetry.

This poem is about: 


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