Unlike a writer, I lack any sense.

Nor do I own a quill and parchment

or speak in pristine calligraphy,

and my peers, to my joy and comfort,

know nothing of a melodramatic me.

I speak in modern, unacceptable slang

and lazily bull**** essays when told,

though I pretend I’m a witch of words

and deny my jokes are getting old.

My music taste is simple and crude,

perhaps lyricless or lacking heart

like the broken thoughts inside my head

that split my skill and courage apart.

I do all I can to appease myself,

so much I worry about the world,

because it’s a wealth of perfected ideas

and I’m a sad woman disguised as a girl.

Unlike a writer, I lack any sense,

but the soul in my words is heaven-sent.