I sometimes wonder if I should stop writing,
If I should shut myself up in a world where only I'd be hurting,
Because, the poetry I write is flawed. It is made of feathers of a broken heart, a wavering mind,
My poetry, is wired to be misaligned.
For, it comes from a place that sometimes, is exuberant with effervescence,
Sometimes, heavy with pain and inexplicable remorse, sometimes, pleading for acceptance,
Sometimes, just desperately yearning to share a perspective, an emotion, raw and organic and innately absorbing.
It comes from a place that simply seeks to be heard and I know no better medium that can contain all my shortcomings.
So despite my formidable petulance, my unforgivable impertinence,
Despite my trembling hands and fumbling fingers, all I intend to bring in, is some sunshine and oodles of difference.