Once you write something, it becomes part of you.

Like something physical, but only you have that mental connection.

You can see the girl you wrote it for or the boy with green eyes you pictured.

You can feel the same sadness and heartbreak, and the same joy and love.

I was asked one day, what poem what my favorite.

What poem I loved the most, and what poem I had the most connection to.

I couldn’t say because they all were little pieces of me.

The bits that sometimes hid away, like some scavenger of words and emotions.

I couldn’t say which was my favorite, or which one I loved the most.

I told you the facts, as I always did.

How I wrote Missing, and Sweatshirt first.

They were the first poems that sparked my desire to change my writing style, to something a bit more me-ish.

How “Zoee” was inspired by a girl, I sat by in my history class.

And “Beautiful” from the time I got weird looks when I wore my older brother’s baseball cap, and a baggy hoodie.

But they were just facts.

Because the simple truth is:

My poems are a part of me, I am just the breathing roots.

They are tiny fragments of myself, that have flaked off.

Been broken off, because people didn’t see them as good parts of me.

Been tore off, because of the days I didn’t think they were beautiful.

And been gathered from around me.

In the few seconds, I stare into a boy’s eyes or a few minutes with a “nerdy” girl.

You can’t expect me to have a favorite when they are part of me.

That is like asking which toe I like best, or which one I wouldn’t care being cut off.

There is no answer to a question when I can only state facts because the truth is:

My poems are part of me.

They don’t breath (Maybe), and they don’t do anything really physical, but golly, they are real to me.




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