Write. Right.

Tell me what you see,
Words make a story,
A Million different views,
She needs to see them
Each one
She doesn't choose,
They roll off her tongue
And from her pen,
In inks black and blue
And every color in between.
Since she was a teen
Tortured artist soul
Half empty cup, goes with the bowl
Overflowing with dreams.
Don't amount to a hill of beans.

It's like I woke up
A stranger to the world.
This life isn't mine,
Wish to do things I feel define
This personality.
Thought eventuality would land me somewhere fitting.
If all these words could make a living,
I'd be living well.
Oh well,
Hope may fade,
But the trace sticks around
Everything I've written down,
Has made sense for me, out of my tumultuous state
of being on Earth.
What is it all worth?
This girl's rambling thoughts,
A legacy,
No one will ever care to read.
All the pieces of me,
So much honesty
Comes out when breaking down.
What conclusions strangers might come to...
At least I have a point of view,
Never too blocked to write.
So what if I"m not doing it right.