Inscribed are what I have bled for—
for all to see.
Criticize or ridicule,
it doesn’t make a difference.
My canvas. My story.
Love it or hate it
Indecisive to the direction I go,
You’re like the wind.
Taking misguided steps to nowhere,
your foot’s in front of the other—going somewhere.
Having nothing to offer within these bare branches,
you still reach out while standing tall.
I feel like I don’t belong.
You’re a flower in a misplaced forest.
When I’m lost in my flaws, I ask myself,
“How can I be lost if I’m everywhere?”
Like treated or natural cloth,
Poetry can be made and interpreted
Like an empty plate,
Poetry is harvested, seasoned, and served
by the hand and imagination of the writer.
Like a transparent rainbow,
Poetry is a dismal entity.
Thoughts need not transcend too far to see.
Like in everything,
Poetry takes a balance of courage and failure
to live a life most memorable—