The Insecurities are flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind—
But the weeds keep growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
—Thoughts of a young child never knowing what to believe.

I lie awake in bed at night staring at the ceiling.
If only the notion could suffice in finding the words—
For the void I'm feeling in my life,
But it isn't simple.

Pure corruption of my mind,
Perfect pictures,
Flawless figures,
The images I can't erase.
Uncomfortable in my own skin—
What do I do to feel safe?

Do I drown myself in ink—to cover up the imperfections?
Instead of talking—walk and let my skin scream the self-expression?

Or do I return to the blank stare in the mirror?
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

The insecurities keep flourishing.
A gorgeous garden was my mind,
But the weeds kept growing in.
Media like kryptonite—weakening my self esteem.
Thoughts of a young child,
--Never knowing what to believe.

One night as I lie awake—I hear my subconscious scream out to me.
The most attractive people do the ugliest of things,
The true beauty you want is what’s imprisoned within.
Why stop your happiness to return to a place—
—A place where you feel so alone?
Why do the tears flow?
You're killing yourself—
And you fail to realize
Your own self-doubt is the knife!
Pessimism,
The negative thoughts building inside—
They’re just as bad as the razorblade that kisses your skin as you sit in silence...
Why are you hurting yourself?
Temporary pain is only a distraction,
You were blessed and shaped by the hands of God.
What more could you possibly ask for?

Appearance is not everything.—
Stop the self-consciousness and live your life.
—acknowledge that you —are your worst —enemy...

I open my eyes.
The cries have ceased,
I return to the blank stare in the mirror.
The words are on repeat.
Who am I to think I’m beautiful—when I myself can’t see?
Who am I to think I'm valuable—when there is no self-confidence there?
Who am I to think I'm worthy—when I myself don't feel?

But it’s different this time,
My reflection speaks.
Saying no—
Who are you not to?
Your imperfections are beautiful.
Beautiful enough for the heart that is meant to love you,
Believe in yourself.
No more self doubt,
No more lost soul.

—No more insecurities flourishing,
A gorgeous garden is my mind.
No more weeds keep growing in,
Media is not my kryptonite,
No more weakening of my self esteem,
Thoughts of a young child finally unshackled —and free.

Like the pages of a book,
I slipped through her fingers.
So intrigued by my sheets,
Each chapter leaves her breathless—wanting more.

A labyrinth of words,
Mere lines and curves—but full of meaning.
So absorbed reality has vanished,
She loses herself inside of me.

Like shadows cast from an open flame,
On her, my silhouette I leave.
Like sand to an incoming tide,
Be swept away in me.

My characters,
The excitement,
The new universe I bleed,
My Ink stained canvas—
Her escape to a new dimension is held within me.

We journey across worlds—in the same room,
I take her up mountains,
We swim across oceans,
Soar from country to country—
Her imagination free to run wild,
My hardcover constraints do little to confine me.

Spread me open,
Dive head first into my pages and reside there with me.
Lust for my contents—
Weep for the lives expired within me.

Become lost in the passion,
Written tears become real tears—emotions:
Memories,
Pain,
Anger,
Sadness,
Happiness,
With each new read she feels alive with me.

My plot— so sweet,
Once she tastes me— she realizes she was always starving.
The bookmark—her utensil,
She stops and goes as she pleases,
Feeding on the juices of a hunger that she can’t appease.

I am her favorite book.
Within me she tunes out everything,
I take her to new heights.
A free mind— captured by my mystery,
My pages are never-ending.

We will live,
We will age,
Only the smell and feel of me will change.
Yet she will always wonder what my next page holds.

I have left my mark.
Whether I lie on the side table,
Or rest upright on a shelf,
I, her favorite book— am always within reach.