Scribble,
Scribble.
The etchings,
of a dreamer.

Who's quill he,
quibbles with.

Grasping at an idea,
that he hydrates
with ink.

In wrathful vengeance,
he abuses parchment,
with a sharpened wood spear.

Drinking his creation,
tweaking the taste,
that's almost bitter.

Slash, ****,
cross out.
He is vexed,
about the ending…

I’m not a hero in any sense of the word
I’m not a brave heart, not a tough guy
I question so much in this head of mine
I question but get no answers most of the time
In my mind goldfish swim round senselessly
I am forgetting all the things I said
I read but I am not well read
My head keeps spinning relentlessly
Is this uncommon, can I be mad
Is this the norm, it makes me  sad
To think of the cruelty that we face
The money, all the wars and hate
I want to be a hero,  save the world
I want to be an angel, but I am just a girl
Making her way every  day
In an agony of indecision, a catalogue of division
So I’m not a hero in any sense at all
But if you are a hero, a brave heart
Please save the world, answer the call

"why are you writing
poems and prose?"
asked a guy out of nowhere
while staring at my pen

"to breathe."
I answered with a smile

for writing lets me indulge
with metaphors and similes

it is my escape
the key toward my fantasies

he collected me
once every piece
and shaped my edges
for him to fit me in

and then when he left
returning those parts of me

it no longer fit
the way
it used to be

maybe it's just right
if i tell you the truth
you are loved
you are valued
you deserve all the good things  in the world
it's okay to be sad
it's okay to be angry
your feelings are valid
don't let the world tell you otherwise