To Poet or Not to Poet

"Mirror, mirror on the wall Who's the fairest of them all?" I walk up to my fogged-up mirror Who is this person  staring back at me? Is she the conventional pretty? Do her eyes look lackluster, the sparkle within them dull and absent? What about her hair? Is it all knotted, mussed up with no sense of direction? Does her skin look speckled, like she doesn't know of her ailments? What about her smile? Do her teeth appear yellowed, as if something has stained them? As if something has stained her? That's how you all see me. I marvel at the woman before me. I look at my coal-colored eyes And see rings of fire within them. My hair that you think looks matted holds sparks of electricity, sparks of creativity. My speckled skin? Those are my battle scars. Years of love, years of hate, all reflected in my beautiful skin. And that yellowed smile? They're not stained at all. They're at phase two, predicting the next move of her lif

I try to walk along the open road                    Obscure, pitch black, afraid of what's ahead There is a fear I feel within my bones                    Emotions are swirling, eyes seeing red Igaze out to my left and to my right                    Attempting to read the blurry street signs I glance at my watch - it is past midnight                    I wonder if I ever cross his mind The tears start pouring down my hollowed face                    A storm is brewing, a true sense of the word It is the one reaction to this state                    Trying to be seen, trying to be heard So this is what it's like to walk alone Down the road, on the edge of unknown