You can write for hours on hours,
Of all the things that you wish you could be, but the truth of theatter is simple,
People are not poetry,
And I know that you wish you weren't awkward, that sweet words could roll right off your tongue, but your time here's too short just to worry,
How each single sentence is strung,
It's okay to be rough round the edges,
To be bruised up and broken and scarred,
But it's not okay to let people tell you,
That it's a reason to change who you are,
Your hair doesn't always sit neatly,
The way a poem sits so neatly,
The way a poem sits so neatly in lines,
And sometimes you might feel like a word,
That nobody has learnt to define,
You might not be a star that lights darkness, or a bird that can teach us to soar,
But it's okay, because you are too complex,
To be crammed into one metaphor,
It's okay not to know what you're doing,
Since your feelings don't have to all rhyme
Though a poem once complete is eternal,
You have the freedom to change over time.