CAN THE POEM BE ME

Can the poem be truly me, Not just words the world can see, But the pain beneath my skin, Where silent wars have always been. Can I be the verse you keep, The line that steals away your sleep, A fragile truth too hard to hide, A trembling heart with wounds inside. I spent years changing who I are, Dimming every broken scar, Turning storms to something light, Just so I could fit their sight. So if love writes over me, Let it leave my spirit free, Whole, unfinished, torn apart Yet still alive with beating heart.