how was a poet made?

everyone wanted to talk.
they wanted to steal your spotlight.
nobody ever wanted to listen.

a poet writes whatever is bothering in her mind
it was a puzzle waiting for a piece to fit
it was a well waiting for a pail so the water could be fetched.
that is how deep my mind is,
no matter how deep it was, I was yearning for a shovel
to dig up the past that bothers me
just like how I draw stars to my scars to make it beautiful
I turned my ******-up past into a masterpiece,
so, everyone knows why a poetess like me yearns for a mic to hold or drop
but nobody wants to listen
so, I resorted to writing,
because I know, the paper and pen I hold dear will not judge me
even when a single tear in my eyes fell from the paper itself.
for all I know, the pen will not laugh back at me whenever I misspelled a word
or if my grammar is not good.
or if my handwriting is hardly understood
the only thing I have known, is I know my poems will not judge me for being a poetess.
they embraced my flaws and made me renowned.