I write,
I write because it is an extension of my being.
I give pieces of me to the world,
And in return, the world gives me a page to write on.
So that my words can reflect my emotions,
And the pages can voice my thoughts.

In the past, I wrote for healing,
As my emotions and tears found synchrony on my pages,
There I could be vulnerable and speak the truth,
The truth I could never say in the open.
I wrote to heal the broken,
To shatter their silence and show that,
Amongst the million broken shards, there was beauty,
Waiting to be reassembled

Now I write for identity.
I crave to know who I am and what I stand for,
And that answer can only be found as my words write over the tear stains.
So I search these pages that contain my words,
In hope that they may also contain my soul,
Finding myself searching each piece for an answer.
And not just raw emotions,
But refined words and emotions.

As I bleed through my pen and use the words,
That course through my veins as ink.
I create art only I can truly admire,
And criticize.
And in that blend of love and hate,
I remind myself that the world is not a fairytale,
Rather it is a story,
Used as teaching to guide yourself to your goal,
The rising of tides and falling of empires.
It is what you leave behind,
The echoes of your legacy and the labors of your journey
It is beauty personified, it is,
Leaving my words as footsteps,
Etched in the minds of my readers.

Opening myself up to a larger ocean of views,
Perspectives and knowledge,
I become a voice for the voiceless.
And pave my own journey,
Through my characters.