The words of me...

My mind is blank, and I keep thinking *what are the words of me?

Some here has called me beautiful, worthy, expressive
But I feel ugly, unworthy, miserable, and meek

What are the words of me?

I'm silent on the outside, silently loud on the inside
Always am I sad, my soul cries and lets out silent screams

What are the words of me?
I find it a mystery.
Why am I a mystery of myself?
Am I still figuring the paradox that is me?
I think so
It's like
I'm still learning my soul and the hieroglyphics that is my heart
Both are foreign to me
Something I've barley discovered

What are the words of me?
I'm still confused, like I never really knew, or maybe have yet to discover it

What are the words of me?
Well here it is.
The words of me are the foreign language of my heart and soul
Each and every poem I wrote and will write explains the words of me
Little by little
My poems are the words of me and more

Those are the words of me
And they're worth a billion and more pictures