She Is Me
She poured all of her pedantic thinking
Into poems as though each were a painting.
Words like drops of paint meant something.
She never cared if some perceived nothing.
Like her essays, voice tends to be verbose,
But she is sure some are not even close.
She oft writes her unspoken feelings away,
Slowly liberating her soul day by each day.
She poured all of her years of growing pain
Into structured forms; hopes to one day gain
Acknowledgement she too is a true artist,
As well as one who can understand any gist.
Like her past lives, she writes from her heart,
Despite compromised mind, she makes art.
She is me, so I'll always write my poetry,
So someday, my poems shall tell my story.
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