I Am.

I am Different.

I walk to the beat of my own drum


I refuse to let society attach strings to my flesh

I’m nobody’s puppet

I define and reinvent the rules of life according to

According to well…



I am unorthodox.

Not only do I embrace my femininity

I accept my masculinity

My questions are,

Should I be treated any differently than any other woman?

Should I be treated differently for not following society’s set “laws and stereotypes” of what and who a woman should be?

I may not have on shorts that look like my skin has been imprinted in them

I may not apply makeup to the point to where my true reflection is hidden in the shadows

I may not be considered beautiful or pretty through the eyes of the world.

The thing is,

None of these statements could ever dismantle my womanhood.


I am conversation.

Words, verbs, nouns, subjects, sentences.

One would think that these actually make up conversation


Conversation is about connecting to another human

No matter what the format or the structure may be

The stories I reenact out to my friends and family

The advice I give

Every word that I write


Created to indulge you in what’s left of my soul.


I am mystique.

Pretty Little Liars


Criminal Minds

The similarity is simple

The human mind is meant to be curious

Curiosity eats at the brain

It provides a source of addiction and intrigue

Until the mystery gets solved; case closed.

How many of you really know me?

You may know my name

But what else?



It was once said that if you write beautifully

Your mind was a dangerous place to venture out to



I am Conflicted.

America made me this way.

Society rejected me

Without even considering

The type of person

I had the potential to be.

There’s been so many times

When I’ve hated myself for not

Being perfect,

Not being feminine enough

Not being thin

I forever have that evidence

Somewhere on my skin.

It was said that time heals all wounds

Yet it’s been years and I’m still bitter

Most times I feel like America

Deserves a couple

Middle fingers.

I refuse to be perfect.

I am complicated…

I am human.

This poem is about: 


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