We all wear masks
Having a perfect face, that's our task

We are supposed to look like dolls
But when we take off the mask and look in the mirror we start to bawl

Because we are told we should look a certain way
And when we dont we are told we can't stay

We are told to walk straight with our chin up
To cover our masks with makeup

And we all listen in fear of rejection
But maybe we should stand up and make an objection
We should be able to look in the mirror and be happy with our reflection
And not always have to strive for perfection

When will we be happy with our face
When will we catch the perfection that we chase

Will we ever get to be good enough
Will our mirror ever stop calling bluff

Will the people around us except us for who we are
Or will we have to forever hide our scars

We all hide who we truly are behind this mask
Being perfect all around that's our task

Bring the buried flower,
Bring the burned out candle.
Bring the closed notebook,
Bring the ended hour.
Dig up the flower,
Strike the match,
Open the notebook,
Begin a new hour.
Bring the writing you’re afraid of
And regenerate it, and
Make it speak.
Scatter your poems left and right,
Because the world can’t wait to hear
Your words.

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.