Defined

Beautiful; chilling; life-sucking; a prison cell.

So few here, yet an abundance of love.

They say that you write your own story

and yet Home took the pen from my hand;

Life took the pen from my hand;

He took the pen from my hand

My hands bleed from all the pages I’ve ripped out

hoping, 

praying, 

to be defined by 

me,

myself,

I.

Home wrote of someone who longed for everything.

And Life wrote of someone who dealt with too much pain.

He wrote of someone who cared too much,

listened too clearly,

loved too often.

But myself-

I’m someone who has dealt with pain,

The kind that brings tears,

and the kind that makes you want to die.

I’m someone who has dealt with love,

the kind that makes you small and crave affection,

and the one that will always be a symbol of home

I’m someone who cares more for everyone else than about myself, 

Because most often people need love more than you do. 

But I’m someone who has pushed through,

kept going,

stayed strong. 

I’m someone who cared about others

when they thought they had none else to care for them.

Some call me a fighter,

My mother says I’m diligent.

I like to say I’m somewhere in between. 

That is my story.