I am a poetry, left unread
I am a lone tear, left not shed
I am a scream, too loud to hear
I am a bad memory, too ugly to bear
But I'm also the northern lights, I appear majestically to those in close proximity.
I am also the culprit, with no enmity,
I am also the outsider, but I have never been lonely.
Then why is it that I feel I'm alone?
I am a wanderer, yet I have a home
I am too hard to read yet I appear easy to those who have become old,
I fly around like a butterfly, yet at the end I'm left to wither
I put up like a rose, but only I know that I'm a potentilla.
I so easily hold my ground and defy the wrong yet so easily I bend because of my love profound,
I am so messy, yet I appear organized.
This all fascinates me as I'm a story you'll never find.
