I am no blessed poet nor songstress,
a sleepless mess, a jest in
of **** peach and pinkish bliss
where I danced in faux Lana
and Marina skins
winning a couple hearts
his, hers, theirs, and yours,
lone wolf in romantic *******.
When the night show's over,
bows all over,
no faux skins of blessed poets
neither, no more.
In my own skin, I am the sleepless mess,
the midnight mortal carving her bliss
with the lights of blessed poets
in a multitude of metamorphoses.
I couldn't sleep, hence this brainchild was born. Even to this very second of my life, I want to be someone else. I want to be the people inspiring me. But then, the right thing is to be like them in my own way, not to be them. I am me, in my own skin.
Loving myself and loving what I do is a long, seems-never-ending journey, but I am still trying.