I am not a beautiful writer.
My words do not always flow right;
I know what I think, but putting words on a page--
That is something I do not always know how to do.
I want to be a storyteller--
Capturing my audiences;
Sweeping them away;
Being one of them,
But I am not a beautiful writer.
The poetic verses that came to me when I was heartbroken,
Or when I wanted to feel something,
Those verses had meaning;
Those words held depth within each breath and brushstroke.
But reading my own poems,
I knew the feeling behind them,
But I hold back,
And deceive myself.
Your feelings are not valid
And do not need to be heard.
You do not need to be heard.
You are not a beautiful writer.
So I pray--
Please, God, let me feel something.
Let my heart be poured out for others to see--
For me to see.
I was here. And I loved. And I felt.
A dangerous prayer--destined to come true.
In an overwhelming flood, my feelings can now pour onto the page, accompanied by tears--
Falling from my face;
Falling from my heart.
A year passes, and I look back on tear-stained pages to realize
My words matter.
My words have always mattered,
Because they were mine,
And they were true,
And they make me a beautiful writer.