I traced the texture of your words
Like my heart was blind
And your voice was braille

The poet lives two lives.
One on the outside,
And one in their mind.

When you look in their eyes
You could see an abyss.

If you looked long enough
You could sink into it.

But most people don’t see it.

Take the time to read the words, though,
And you would know for sure.

The poet lives in two different worlds.

No matter how many times I'm called beautiful
or pretty, of gorgeous, or any other comment,
I will always cry when I hear the name
You try to call me adoringly...

It is dead.
I bury it here
In the words.
I write its tombstone.

So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough

If there comes a time
that you might lose me
Find me in my poetry