*Confessions Of This Writer*
I am far from perfect.
I crave to understand why.
Why my pieces couldn’t make more sense and why everyone insists there’s beauty to this mess.
Half the time that’s what I’m thinking about. But listen I’m about to let all this nonsense out.
Confessions of this writer.
My truth is that I don’t know whether I’ve mastered lying truthfully or whether the truth is that I’m just a liar.
I said my truth is.
That this is probably going to be the most honest poem I’ll be able to write and yet it still won’t cover the entire truth. That poetry is my oath to being truthful, that this is my closest to being fruitful and mindful.
But maybe I’m waiting for someone serious
Enough to tell me savagery is my greatest weakness.
My confessions, there are demons I’m fighting even my pen is too scared to write about.
Call me a coward.
I’m not heartless, nor am I fearless but I’m doing nothing less then trying,
Trying to be an empress even I find worshipping.
I’m asking for forgiveness for sharing my Lord with my pride instead of realising there’s only room for one.
Is that every night I find a way to confess to my Lord. And I may be a broken mess,
But when He tells me I’m beautiful My pieces finally make more sense.
~ Mind Of The Writer