You can write for hours and hours,
of all the things you wish you could be,
but the truth of the matter 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 is too short to worry,
about how each sentence is strung.
It’s okay to be rough around the edges,
to be bruised up and broken and scarred,
but it’s not okay to let people tell you,
that it’s the reason to change who you are.
Your hair doesn’t always sit so neatly,
the way a poem sits so neatly in lines,
and sometimes you might feel like a word,
that nobody has learned to define.
You might not be a star that can light up the darkness,
or a bird that can teach us how to soar,
but its okay, because you are too complex,
to be crammed up into a single metaphor.
It’s okay not to know what you’re doing,
because your feelings don’t have to rhyme,
though a poem once complete is eternal,
you have the freedom to change over time.
You’re much more than can ever be written,
there is no title to say “this is me”,
because you can’t be trapped in the lines of a notebook,
because people are not poetry.