If we are all born blank pages
That await to be filled with purpose
Why wouldn't you write a poem on me
Why would they treat me like they did?
I wasn't some old newspaper
I wasn't junk mail to be thrown away
I was a canvas to be painted on
Expecting beautiful artworks
But what did you give me instead
You made me a blacklist
Of what people never should be
Yet whose fault is it?
It was you who wrote me
It was you who destroyed me
You would try to burn my paper
But here I am, taking the pen myself
I'm writing my story myself
And I will draw myself into who I want to be
I will put paint over your destruction
It will be underneath still
But I will make me beautiful again
I don't want to be blank anymore
I want to be colourful
I want to draw pictures
And shapes and patterns
Make myself into a painting
So unique and detailed you will never quite understand
Because there is always more to learn
And I don't want to miss a bit
YOU ARE READING
It does get better.
PoetryPeople say it will get better. But to be fair, most of them never were in your place. They say you will get happy again, but how can they know? I've struggled with trauma, mental illnesses and self harm for many years. These are (mostly) poems - abo...
