I am...

Born to another name, I speak the words that no one will for me

My heart and body don't match instead they clash

Like two cars colliding and destroying each other before an audience of Me, Myself and I.

I am...

A full head and twisted limbs, fingers and eyes peeking from my shield of short hair and not speaking

I got told I wasn't good enough to write professionally, all I know is teenage angst. 

Well if you knew what I saw would you write the same? Would You drive into the lake of

Blue light that comes from those words that I hold so dear?

I am...

Not bothered, I can withhold that for every night in my own poetry quarry,

when I walk and hear the leaves tell me their stories, Oh Please Tell Me Your Story!

Shouted or whispered, unheard. Did it even ever matter? 

When the words get you down and say you can't write and hold a job, do you carry on?

I sing the poems to my friends, they ask me to sing once again-

this time another and another and another 

all the hidden little flaws and lies I'm constantly duct taping and White-Outing

I can write poetry all night;  I do in class I get asked if I'm alright

Silence is golden so slow my fingers, my sin is too strong for me to linger.

I am...

Going to help people, not in the way I originally thought. 

I believed I was a natural writer to tell a story, but my hands can do more than that

I know they can do more than that, with wounds and shell shock, and nightmares, 

Little girls who grow too fast, and little boys who aren't little boys at all. 

All while writing, I'll keep doing this

Blurred fingers will be a thing you will know. 

I am...

Charlie Jordan, the second child. The one they asked if was special...

Turned out I was.

I am pretty special to want to give it all, my heart and soul and if that may break me...

Let's hope my fingers don't.