Strange thing, authenticity.

It sort of squirms, morphs, blacks out

When you stare,

But sure enough when you forget it

It's there.


Ah, I'm a warrior-princess!

(I hope.)

Or an enlightened ethereal being

Living in the trees.

I cry alot, it seems,

And yet, everyone says I laugh,

And I do.

I secretly love to peg myself down.

Is it vain, do you think?

Personality, personality,

Favorites, preferences, opinions,

And in the end of it all,

Who I am is who I'll be--in eternity:

A raw, flickering, lifted-up soul,

Strong by strength not her own.

She craved intimacy.

Intimacy--at last--over-brimmed.

And, yes, a warrior princess.





This poem is about: 
Our world


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