She is not the reflection they painted,
nor the role they assigned.
She is the breath of the earth,
the roots and the bloom,
both soft and unyielding.
She carries worlds within her—
and owes nothing to anyone.

I’m weird,  
for dreaming in broad daylight,
for speaking in riddles,
and letting my silence speak louder than words.  

I’m weird,
because my thoughts spill out in silence,
hovering on my lips like secrets,
and when I speak,
the world looks away,
as if the truth in my voice
is something they’re not ready to hear.

I’m weird,
for finding beauty in broken things—
the fragments others throw away,
and in the bruises I hide beneath my skin.
They whisper stories,
reminding me of the pieces I hold together in myself,
stories (that) only I seem to understand.

I’m weird,  
because I laugh when I want to cry,  
and cry when no one else does—  
my tears fall for the stars,  
and my heart breaks for the moon.  
I feel too much,  
love too fiercely,  
as if my soul was made  
for a world too fragile to last.

I’m weird,
for I don’t fit in the spaces they give me,  
so I carve my own,  
even if it means standing  
on the edge, alone.

But if weird is what I am,  
then let it be,  
for I’d rather be this beautiful ache,  
this painful bloom of something true,  
than fold myself small enough  
to fit into a world  
that never made room  
and never will.

I’m weird,  
and maybe that’s the best thing I’ll ever be—  
not perfect, not easy to understand,  
but real, raw,  
and unashamed  
of every odd, jagged piece  
that makes me whole.

Yes, life may be cruel.
On some days, you might falter,
Under shadows of doubt, thinking
About letting it all slip away. But
Remember the strength within, and
Every joy that makes life whole, cause
Living is the greatest pride,
One that shines so bright. So, smile
Very wide, embrace your days, and
Enjoy each moment you hold dear.

She is the poem I never wrote,
but always wanted to write.
The poem I’d sit down with,
every intention of writing,
but could not come up with
the right words.
Sweet, but fierce.
Discarding perfection,
only asking for presence.
A flower that learned to survive
in a drought.

She is a poem that takes
the pieces of herself and
arranges them in love.
Not the loving pieces easily
found in the light
that’s too easy.
But the pieces that accidentally
wandered in the dark and got lost.
The pieces of herself she forgot
were there.
She takes her time,
finding these pieces and putting them
back where they belong.

When she speaks,
her tongue is like a hammer,
hammering every nail that needs
to be put into place.
Even if she misses and, instead,
hits her hand,
she doesn’t tear everything down
regardless of how much it may benefit her.
She repositions herself
and starts again.

She is the poem I never wrote,
but always wanted to write.
As hard as it is to start again,
she’s never afraid to start again

To have a warm space of one's own where everything is welcome.

Where I can feel at home within myself.

Where I soften internally no matter what comes up.

Where I let go by expanding this warm space around this feeling.

Where everything is allowed to be.
Is slowing down. Is floating.

Where I can breath.

Where I stay in one place and things come and go. Thoughts and feelings come and go.

Where I say yes to everything and I am the space around everything.

Take the scissors,  
And cut around the edges of my heart.  
Don't worry about how it looks.  
Fold whatever part of me  
That you need to make the first cut.  
I'd be surprised if you find any part  
Of me that's folded neat.  
The kaleidoscope of construction  
Paper that is me.  
  
I consider myself a collection  
Of scars and different colors—  
Of the things that I like and dislike.  
Even the wrinkled pieces of myself  
I've forgotten about.  
You've brought light to those pieces  
With each snip of your scissors.  
I've noticed how quiet and content  
You've become.  
  
You cut, and I bleed in color—  
Purple, blue, and yellow.  
Of all the shapes you've cut,  
None of them are painful.  
Watching you mix up the different color pieces of my soul,  
Your love, the stick glue that  
Gives these pieces more functionality.  
  
I breathe easier, knowing that you're here.
No longer restricted  
By stagnant stillness.  
You can even fold them into an  
Airplane and sail across the room.  
I haven’t had this much fun  
In a long time.
Don't forget the scrap pieces

I see your eyes
They're begging me
To attend them

Not today
Go away

I'm not going
To beg for
Your attention anymore.

she paints an image of herself –
all flaws gone, erased from reality:
blissful heaven and ecstasy are all that are left.
brushes away her transgressions,
her fears and regrets.
sadness overpowered by a layer of cyan.

she is happy at this moment,
and the stroke after that,
and the stroke after that – i hope.
she is her own goddess – creator of beauty –
maker of paradise –
mother of thin, crowded jet-black lines.

every tint of ink, a new creation;
a bridge to herself;
a mirror of herself.
she is the artist striving for perfection.
every hour she batters herself.
every hour she compares herself.

aiming for the stars and beyond,
but she only fools herself –
for she is perfection.

freckle-speckle face,
marks like delicate lightning
on stomach and thighs,
soft form like Aphrodite.

broad, sturdy bones
wrapped in imperfection.
with flaws like gems,
you shine the brightest.