A little Self discovery


There are two sides of me

No, scratch that,

Perhaps there are three.

The first is my favorite,

The woman I aspire to be.

She is somewhat of a wonder woman,

A warrior of the sort,

Headstrong, independent,

wielding her silver tongue like a steel sword,

She who carries the weight of the world on such tiny shoulders,

And with a bulletproof heart nothing can touch her.

Nothing can break her down.

Ladies and gentleman,

Meet the unrealistic part of me.


 Then you have the second,

That hippie wanna-be,

The undomesticated side of me.

She who loves the harsh tang of cigarettes on the tongue,

She who relishes in the sweet sensations

That causes the blood to sing and the vessels to pulsate.

It is the thrills that she seeks,

To live without worry,

Live without care.

Basking in the guilty pleasures.

An unsettled soul in need of salvation

That girl is me.


 But The most common of all is the third self,

That tiny mouse I sometimes become.

She who cowers to the darkest part of my mind,

Questions her worth,

Doubts and doubts until she is folded

Into a tiny ball of uncertainty.

There are words,

Towers of words

Skyscrapers of words

tucked away in her mind

And yet she can’t seem to utter a single one of them.

She who searches for vibrant colors in rigid white walls

And love in the most unlikely places.

She who becomes the cracks and bruises on her skin,

She who falls, and falters and crumbles from within.

That feeble person is also me.

Let it be known,

I have the personality of a messy color palette,

My blues, overlapping the greens

And reds making, yellows and violets .

They say that creation is sometimes messy,

And I am nothing but a chaotic creation.

A fickle child I so often become,

Indecisive and giddy,

One day wanting one thing,

And the next craving another.

My desires change swifter

than the direction of the wind.

So every morning as I wake and  shake

of the haze of the night,

and welcome the glare of the blinding sun,

I ask myself.

Which of my many selves am I going to be today.


Paper, pen and Poetry 💕

The Brooding Poet

Look At You Now

Look at you now,

Tear-stained, dazed and dejected.

Gone are the golden rays and feelings of spring.

Now you search for the remedy

To winters’ merciless sting.

Look at you now,

Reaching for the moon and the stars,

But you do not get too far,

For your ankles are still chained to the ground,

Oh darling when will you fly?

Look at you now,

Glass fragments on the stone cold floor.

The chill arises and settles on your skin,

But you do not budge,

You feel nothing at all.

Look at you now,

You are not fine china,

You do not shatter when you fall,

This fight is not your last

You have not lost it all.

Look at you now

A chipped tea-cup within the perfect set,

Your skies may be murky and grey,

Your Heart pierced; thoughts in disarray.

But you have not lost…

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I don’t need anyone,

But it would be lovely to have someone

kiss your wounds,

To hold your hand through the storms.

To protect your heart from the hurt.

To dry the tears that slip out.

To simply be there.

I search for something greater,

Someone I can commit myself to.

I don’t need anyone,

But I want something like this.

via Daily Prompt: Commit


I Am

Look up to the sky,

That dusty cloud suspended in the air is me.

Nature dictates that I roam free

There is no course that is set for me,

I go where the wind blows.


At the foot of the beach exists a grain of sand

That swirls and twirls at the waves demand,

That, is also me.

I have no home,

I belong to no shore.

I settle where the waves place me.


Do you see that rugged headland that juts out at sea?

That, once again, is me.

I am a victim of the wave’s appetite.

I have no power,

I have no voice,

I simply let it break me.


I am the tin man from the wizard of oz,

Rusted are my joints and heavy are my feet,

Tap on my chest.

There’s a hallowed sound that resonates throughout my body,

And an empty space for where my heart use to be.


There is a long forgotten novel at the back of my bookcase,

The cover has paled, been tainted,

touched and gazed upon by curious eyes,

But the pages remain unturned,

Its contents unexplored.

And darlings, that novel is me.