I always dream of a glamorous city,
where the lights glitter brighter
than the silver on my ears,
where beauty is a song on every tongue
and silence lingers like air.

For now, I chase my goals,
like a bird darting after a worm—
restless, ambitious, unafraid.
Because that city waits for me,
the place I will one day call home.

Is writing really my thing ?
Yeah I may create stories—
Fulfilling ones.
I may craft poems
That flows like rivers.

But every one can write.
Everyone can imagine

So what makes me unique?
What makes me special?

We all crave something,
But once it's in our hands,
The craving ,the longing,
The spark—it disappears,
Drifting away
Like a leaf upon the river.

I find it scary to write a poem,
because what if people don’t like it?
Or worse — what if they do,
and it means they’re broken too?

Does it mean they also can’t find
peace and treasure in their mind?
Does it mean they feel the same,
so my pain is not a claim?

The fear, the loss, the pain and everything
If its not mine does it leave me as nothing?

For a long time,
I tried to change myself —
the clothes I wore,
my hairstyle,
even painted my face with makeup
to hide everything I thought wasn't enough.

I thought if I were different,
People would finally love me.

But I forgot something small and true:
No matter how I change,
I am still me.

And the right person will love me
for who I am —
not for the versions I pretend to be,
But for the real, messy, honest me.

I don't believe in love at first sight,
Because how can you love me
Without knowing my flaws ?

True love is when you love
Every scar in me,
Every imperfection.

Cause that's the beauty of love.
I want you to want me
With your soul,
Not just the heart and the mind.

I want you to crave me,
Get butterflies when I'm around
And ache when I'm not.

I want to feel home in your arms ,
Lost in your smile,
Where my troubles dissaper.

I want crazy love,
Where we’ll get washed by the rain
While dancing,
Where laughter grows louder
Than a crescendo.

I want us to paint our faces
With flour as we bake,
Messy hands,
Because love isn't perfect
It's messy and playful.