I am a squiggle of imperfection,
a reality that bites,
a dose of destruction
that has never felt so right.
I am the strings of a guitar
so out of tune yet trying,
something so bizarre,
a word searching for its meaning.
I breathe in doses of criticism,
judgment and skepticism
and when I think of myself,
I seem like a song left unwritten.
I am the face of an ugly truth,
streak of dirt on everyone's sleeve
shoved so easily to the corner
bombarded with disbelief.
I am a faceless warrior,
hiding under my shroud of fears,
waiting for you to unclothe me,
to cleanse what's unclear.
My thoughts are consuming me,
I can't figure out where to start,
who should be saving who
from the wars inside my heart?
