There was a guy once.
I thought I was in love with him.
And when he surprised me with a breakup text,
And my friends didn’t care to ask me about my feelings,
I decided to write.
My friends and parents don’t understand me.
I understand me.
That’s why I write.
Because I know what I’m talking about.
I know my own feelings,
Even if they are confusing to the rest of the world.
I started out full of anguish and hurt.
I wrote about the hell he’d put me through.
I wrote all the questions I wish I could have asked him.
I wrote about a day that he might realize his mistake
And come back for me.
That day never came.
I started to move on.
I wrote about revenge.
I wrote about the look on his face when he’d see me with someone better.
I wrote about the day when I’d forget about him
And all the memories we shared
Because I’d be with someone who gave me better memories.
When there was no one else,
When there was no one that cared,
So many times I’d cry in class,
But I’d pull out some paper and a pen
And instead of pouring out tears,
My pen poured out feelings,
After all the hurt and anger,
I was able to move on.
Not because I found someone better
Or because he came back for me.
But because my writing had set me free.
I had no hard feelings left.
They were all on paper.
Now, I still write poetry.
Not because I’m hurt.
Or I have some talent.
But because I have hope.
I have someone better.
I write about love.
I write about the best future I can imagine.
And I write so I can look back
At these poems
And smile because no longer am I pouring out hurt and anguish.
I’m pouring out the best memories of my life.
I’m pouring out the things that I never thought could happen to me.
I write because I’m me.
I write because I’m happy.
And I write because no one else understands it.
Just like no one understands me.
And now, that’s fine with me.