Someone once thought my poetry was ****.
Scoffed at what I wrote about.
Truth be told,
it did hurt.
And I replayed their words that day letting it eat me up inside.
A part of me didn’t want to write anymore.
But how could I turn my back on something I loved more than anything?
It’s impossible for me to leave behind the very thing that makes me smile,
and in a way has saved me numerous times.
It’s my outlet when my head becomes too complicated,
and each breath feels like a chore.
I don’t write to please others.
I write what’s on my heart and what fills my brain.
If for some reason someone doesn’t like it,
than so it be.
I’m just being true to me.
And here I am,
still writing,
still breathing.