How Can I Write A Poem About Myself Mga Nobela at Kwento

This is me Something different Something new A me I never knew She created this version A new version of me So let me soak in her beauty Let me have this time To be the person She craves The person she makes me want to be K x I read the poem over and over. Considering everything, I only look up when I hear the door close and lock. King walks to me, and I bite against my lip.

It's a thought I'll keep to myself for now until I look deeper into it or perhaps I'll adopt. Driving home I replay the conversation I had with Archer and Jace after the children were in bed. Letting their words sink in, I've decided that yes, I am bisexual and if I want children in the future I can do it myself but if I find someone along the road, then fine.

I wrote for myself. The words came slowly at first, then faster—as if they’d been waiting, buried beneath all the silence and shame. I didn’t worry about grammar or if the sentences made sense. I just let it spill out—the ache, the betrayal, the love I lost, and the pieces of myself I wanted to find again. When I finished, I folded the paper gently and slipped it into the side pocket of my suitcase. Maybe I’d burn it one day. Or maybe I’d keep it, to remind myself how far I’d come.

Maybe I would write about love. Love for the body. The love that can make one jealous of one's self, although I didn't know if such a thing was possible. I just knew that I had to keep writing—anything to make the people who didn't feel good about their body feel better about themselves. And maybe more. “That's all for today. Let me know if you have questions.” “Ma'am?” Someone raised her hand.

“Oh, this is nothing,’’ I whispered to myself before walking off to the opposite direction happily, one unhappy moment can not undo and outweigh all the good time and memories that we had created together, that was just impossible. The bell rung and I rushed off to English class, the teacher asked everyone to write a poem down as she went round and I couldn’t seize the moment better, this was my chance to outshine everyone. Ye god of beauty, Ooh Israelite god lost in earth Ye is full of walking metaphors and perfections A breath oozes love and makes beautiful flowers to blush Like a virgin caught in a midnight dance with bachelors Thou eyes glow like molten lave and hot coals, healing broken

Still letting her touch them. She pulled me up. Both hands on my face. Made me look at her. Those blue-green eyes. Steady. Sure. Holding me from somewhere I couldn’t reach to push away. “Write about me.” “What?” “In your essays. Your notes. Wherever you put the things you can’t say out loud. Write about me the way I wrote about you. I want to exist in your words too.” “I can’t write like you.” “You don’t have to write like me. You just have to write like you.”

He added. I breathed a sigh of relief. "It's hard to believe that you write poems." I said, crossing my arms across my chest. "That is one of the ways I can express myself, it helps a lot. I would have fallen into depression." He whispered, I could relate with him, I feel that way when I write too. I guess writing is like a super power to we writers. "So, I caught you staring at me or should I say checking me out. Do you think I'm hot, like really hot. Check my muscles out. Shit, I need to dye my hair before tomorrow." He added, smirking.

I hide it so well, I smile my mind run miles, I speak no words my energy’s thought… I’m troubled. Can you see? My eyes wonder every path, My mind has wondered about, I wonder……’ ‘No, no, no. I cannot do this to myself. The moment I allow this thoughts, this poem conversion of mine to go on, I will go deeper. I need to stop thinking’

I’ll keep wearing this borrowed skin, keep whispering the words they want to hear, because for now that’s all I can do. And I will keep writing. Because if I don’t leave these pieces of myself behind, somewhere, I might forget I ever existed at all.

God! I have been reasoning for quite some time now, putting pieces in place once again as I have done before. I don't know if I should just cage the real me and bring the characters inside me to revolve round and paint colors to the world with the help of poetry. Poetry? What poetry? I have no idea what poetry means because when the real me starts writing, I feel wild and untamed. Nah... I feel up and down. I feel am on top of the moon. That is not supposed to be me. That is not supposed to be how I feel. That is not supposed to be how things should be. Who is God? What is God? How is God? Where is God? Why is God?