Yes, I am not whole,
Neither did I admit to be perfect,
But my existence sparks out the ordinary,
Is it my personality,
Is it my beauty,
That radiates it all.

Yes, I'm not whole,
But what makes me unique?
I'm full of imperfections and flaws,
Are those what make me so mystique.?

They say it's not just my personality,
Or my outward beauty that outshines,
Or  how I carry myself?
And maybe it's the light in my eyes?

But I'll tell you one thing,
Embrace your imperfections,
Your energy is contagious,
You lift up those around you,
And make them feel courageous.

The beauty about you will be known by those that appreciate you,
Even after they denied me reason why i spark out the ordinary,
One thing I know for sure is,
I radiate positivity,
I don't depend on their judgement,
I stand on my grounds,
My energy is just contagious,
And that is what makes me whole.

Ever wonder what drives someone to pen down their thought?
To prose how they feel,
From a letter to a word to a whole sentence,
Then I'll tell you mine.

While Writers are born with a pen in their hands,
Others are made out of emotions, fate and serenity of their ambiance,
But I am made out of pain,
Pain that led to a pen and paper.

It started with a heartbreak caption to a break up poem,
And when you all alone, having no one to talk to,
The diary becomes your friend,
I spent hours with my diary,
Venting it all,
Until I realised my pen had become my master.

It controlled me,
It got the better part of me,
I became a slave to my pen,
And my mind bowed down to it,
Ideas flowed like the waters of the great river euphrates in the garden of eden.

I'll tell you what,
That's how my pen was born,
Born from pain,
And it turned to a fountain of tales and here we are,
Full of smiles.

What a journey!!!
My journey.
Maryhuxley poems 🖋️

To a writer, a book full of words is a treasure untold,
A tapestry of their art, a story yet to unfold.
With each page turned, their imagination takes flight,
Inspiring them to create, to dream, and to write.

And for a poet, letters of love are like whispers from the heart,
Gulfed with emotions, they ignite a poetic spark.
Each word a brushstroke, painting emotions on the page,
Creating verses that resonate, like an eternal flame.

So, send these gifts to writers and poets near and far,
A book for the writer, a letter for the poet, like shooting stars.
Let them know their words have touched your soul,
And inspire them to continue sharing their art, making it whole.

May these gestures of love and appreciation,
Fuel their creative fire, their endless dedication.
For in their words, we find solace and delight,
A testament to the power of writing, shining bright.

whispers,
Unending thoughts,
Painful imaginations,
Was I at fault?

Silent cries at midnight,
In the depths of darkness, my heart shattered,
A symphony of pain, only I can hear,
But amidst the anguish, I claim hope.

For brokenness doesn't define me,
It's just a page, and I'm ready to flip it,
Secure myself a new chapter,
With each tear shed, strength grows.

I may be broken but not truly lost.