I am not necessarily a poet
Nor a learned word-smith
I am a mere example of crooked perfection
Almost reprised omnipotence
Cast out from the universe’s most complex organisms
My demise is witnessed in the hands of the illiterate
In the tabooed existence of the immensely unfathomed, disinherited outcasts
However, I write for the lost
I write for the broken
I write about the repercussions of a dismantled society for a 17 year old
I write for the book worms “the fresh novel pages smell” enthusiasts
I write about escapes, soundscapes and write-scapes
I write about flowers and garden mysteries
I write about scents and tastes
I write about my mom
I write about the libraries that saved us and swallowed us into an abyss of endless, eternal discoveries
I write about my inability to write about love
I write about my journey to self-consciousness
I write about the first day I picked up the pen and started writing