I am lost in the precipice of my being, one that finds herself in the callous whispers of what belies to be true
In the armour of her poetry, she hides pain under her sinew
To the lost breaths and shattered dreams 
A crevice of her still holds onto their torn pieces with a smile that gleams

Tenderness often is a sin in a world that enrages us in the masks of toughness that roar
Often hiding the tiny glimpses of who we are meant to be in the softness that encapsulates the core
A mind that races, a heart that pounds in quiet sorrow 
Enrapturing the bane of being human, one confounds in the anomalies of tomorrow 

I beckon to be the simplicity of ruse,
 I hail to be the paradoxical being of truce
I am no longer compelled to deduce my existence to other beings
I live in the bare authenticity of my truth, the one who is unafraid to be seen

I laugh in loud galore, I swim gallantly in the uncertain currents of the existential stride.
For I know who I am, the one who loves herself even with no one is around.
A quest that dances in the passions of what truly radiates my strife
Find me in the depths of my creations, one that propels me to make me alive.

.    .    .