What have I become?
How did I end up here?
What did I do to deserve this?

What do you see when you look at me?

Brown hair
Short, Fair
Curvy around the edges
Lipstick shade everyone judges
Comfortable wear, totes, and wedges
Uneven nail ridges, mascara smudges
Goofy mannerisms, a subject of criticism
prodigy of individualism with a slight tinge of feminism
Smart, Cute
an acute brute or a complete hoot
a witch, a narcissistic *****
or yet another girl you can easily ditch
Incredible, gullible
Adorable or terrible
Cold-hearted, Introverted
or easily outsmarted
the biggest smile you’ve ever seen
the one who addresses herself as the Queen
Kind, mean or everything in between.

What do you see when you look at me?

Not all artists are broken.

They paint with colours
drawn from their memories to
empty canvases.

They sculpt figurines
out of their flesh and bones.

They bleed out words
into beautiful prose and poetry.

They create symphonies
with the gentle swish of their wands.

Their steps beat synonymously
with their heart.

Not all artists are broken.
They take all their pain and
turn it to something beautiful.
It’s magic.

It's ok to be born different.
It's ok to be abnormal, subnormal and normal.
It's ok to be scarred, to be scared.
It's ok that you once cared.
It's ok your childhood was a mess.
It's ok you're still a damsel in distress.
It's ok to wish for everything.
It's ok to have had nothing.
It's ok to be a child and still grow up.
It's ok to live in fear, to casually throw up.
It's ok to not fit the frame.
It's ok to not have hit the fame.
It's ok to talk to yourself.
It's ok to listen to others than thyself.
It's ok to dance under the moon.
It's ok to walk like a complete loon.

It's ok to have odd mannerisms.
It's ok to like everything everyone else says.
It's ok not to like everything everyone else says.
It's ok to be gullible.
It's ok to be shy.
It's ok to be fat.
It's ok to be short.
It's ok to be called ugly.
It's ok to fall in love.
It's ok to have lost the war.
It's ok to pour out how your heart feels.
It's ok to be shot down, stomped upon.
It's ok to be broken.
It's ok to cry your heart out.
It's ok to yell at the top of your lungs at random.
It's ok to pretend at times.
It's ok to laugh maniacally.
It's ok to make others laugh.
It's ok to show how you feel.
It's ok to hope, not to give up.
It's ok to want to go places and to adopt a pup.
It's ok to feel something other than happy.
It's ok to feel love, hate and everything in between.
It's ok to be a mystery than a mere tragedy.

It's ok to be this way.
It's ok to be okay.
It's ok to be you.

It’s funny how
certain faces you see,
places you’ll be,
aroma of the air around you,
a random déjà vu,
how familiar the food tastes,
the warmth of embraces,
voices and noises
can take you to
a specific place, time, a moment
in your life, long forgotten.

Pain is inevitable.
You won't know when and how it will strike you.
The best you can do is pray and hope it doesn't find you.

Unbelievable are the names I have:

Unable
Unworthy
Unfashionable
Unattractive
Unhappy
Unsuite­d
Unwanted
Undesirable
Unbearable
Unlucky
Untalented
Unaware
Unre­liable
Unsettled
Unwilling
Undecided
Unqualified
Unkind
Unknown

­When all I am ever is Unprefixed.

You stupid, stupid heart.
You just had one job.
Pump blood that’s all.

Instead you had to mess it up.
Catch feelings, get carried away,
break and weep.

Brain asked me to warn you,
to hold your pace or else
to make you think of the last time
when you got stomped upon,
got shattered into pieces,
going after something that wasn’t
yours to keep.

To remember how much you cried
and almost died beating for someone
who wasn’t yours to hold onto.

You stupid, stupid heart.
Why would you turn yourself cold?
But most importantly when will you ever learn?

Sometimes the best you can see is when you have your eyes closed.
The best conversations come out of
silences.
The best ideas evolve from the corners
of a mad brain.
Art arises from pain.
True love can happen from a broken heart.
And broken souls shine better.

If home were a person,
pretty sure I’d still be homeless.

Eventually, we all become somebody else.

Some become the fathers they wished
to have had in their childhood.

Others become the mothers
they despised growing up.

Some become the friends
they kept a rat race with.

And some others become
the man or woman
they want to marry.