I am not a beautiful writer.

My words do not always flow right;

Sound right;

Feel 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 conceal,

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.