I don’t think anyone really knows me.
I put on so many different faces, Sometimes I can’t even tell that it’s me.
I wish someone would give me a momentary peace.
I have so many thoughts,
Some troubling you see.
Are we just pretending?
Fitting in a world that seems never-ending?
Should I rip off the mask and let everyone see.
The true me?
Do I even know her?
Or was she crafted from months of taking on another persona?
I was confused as to what it means to write poetry.
Schools used to tell me what the definition meant,
I tried to follow their guidelines, but it wasn’t for me.
I just had to be.
I was hesitant to write about what I really see,
things concerned with strife.
I thought I had a handle on what it means to write poetry.
To always be introspective, and allow the audience to see the deepness in you.
The raw, the honest, may come off as too brutal,
I went to my local library and immersed myself in the works of Solmaz Sharif,
Jenny Xie, and Carmen Gimenez Smith. I smiled when my hands ghosted across Maya Angelou, and sighed when I saw the well-loved and worn books of Lord Byron.
Each style was unique.
It was uniform in the fact that it had no uniform.
I loved being squeezed between the old bookshelves.
They were free of scorn.