The first gave you life,
and the second taught you how to live it.
How to breath in a world full of foul air,
and rotten society.

The first gave you a need for love,
and the second was there to give it.
The love one needs when they fall and scrape their knee.
The kiss goodnight that every child deserves,
to know its ok to sleep
because tomorrow is a new day.

One became your guiding star;
the other became your sun.
The one your world revolves around.
With the perfect amount of force,
to keep you spinning but
know you always have a place to land.  

One was there for a short time;
the other is here for the long run.
Here to help you grow and succeed in life.
The life, you were lucky enough to obtain.

One gave you the seed of talent;
the other gave you an aim.
An aim to point your arrow
and shoot for the sky.
Not just the stars,
but the moon,
and the sun,
because she gave you opportunity.

One gave you a nationality;
the other gave you a name.
A name to be known, to be remembered.
A name you can call your own.
So when you hear it said in a society full of people
you can say, “I’m here, this is me.”

One gave you emotions;
the other calmed your fears.
One saw your first sweet smile;
the other dried your tears.
The fear of not fitting in.
The tears you cried when someone called you different.
But the truth is,
even though you are different,
you are just as good as anyone else.

Their parents might have decided,
or they might have been surprised.
But your parents.
Your parents chose you.
The first might have disowned you,
and yes, that will live along side you
for the rest of your life.
But you are the lucky one.
The one with a story to tell.

Others started life with a blank page,
but you already had chapters.
Beauty isn’t just a pretty face,
or a small waist.
Beauty is life,
and you are fortunate to live it.
Yes you are different.
But you’re not just different.
You are a different kind of beautiful.

A simple question,
four words, why do I write?
I write for me,
to escape from the world.
I write to express myself
in a way I wouldn’t be able to with my voice.
I write for others,
to entertain them,
put a smile on their face,
or to let them know they aren't alone.
I write to forget.
I write to remember.  
I write because I know the paper won’t judge me.
The pen will never disagree with me, even if I am wrong.
I write because there are no boundaries, no expectations.
I have the ability to create anything with just words on a paper.
I write to save my imagination, to expand it.
I write to better understand my surroundings,
to see the world in different ways.
I write to hate.
I write to love.
To cry.
To smile.
I write to communicate,
if no one will listen.
I write for various reasons.
But most of all,
I write because in second grade
my teacher told me I could be an amazing writer.

She doesn’t feel at home in her own home
because she’s not home grown.
Artificial
as a plastic flower that you buy in a store,
instead of taking the time to plant it your self.

She conceals herself in a white room,
with depression and a razor.
Because the somatic pain
ceases the pain her mind endures.
A need to bleed,
just to know she’s alive.