Wabi-Sabi, not the sauce, the beauty inside me. My scars are real, I cant keep hiding. My pain was strong, but I keep fighting. Amateurism racks my poem, but i know that its a lyrical loam. I've accepted my banes, now i play like Batman. I run around like a satisfied cat-man. Random diction builds up my fiction, and tingling fingers entrap my keyboard. Can't write anymore. Now I'm board.
This poem is about: