She never understood
why she loved books
The way they are much more capable
of warming hearts on a stormy night
than a cup of bittersweet coffee.
She never understood
Why she hated capitalising
and hated the word ‘why'.
She never understood
Why her favourite word is still ‘incredible’
And why she loved repetition
And use of periods.
And commas.
And conjunctions.
She never understood
Why she always wanted to cut her hair herself,
But if she was bird
She wouldn't fly across oceans and seas
Because she wouldn't trust her wings that much.
She never understood
Why she always find herself late at night
Thinking about why and how
She can’t kiss the past good bye.
She never understood
Why she easily lose herself to others,
Like rivers to oceans,
And how she finds someone worthy
If he makes someone’s heart happy.
Somehow she can never love
Or hate herself wholly.
It was always between self-love and self-loathe.
And *she never understood why.
Our English teacher asked us to make a self portrait poem. I know it's a bit awkward, but at least I tried.
