I write for me.

I am a miniscule grain of sand in an endless shoreline,

Moving with the wind without a say on where I would like to go.

Stepped on by those who are “greater” than me,

And then I heat up to a scorching burn to take my vengeance.

The ocean is my past,

Always crashing against the ground,

Reminding me that it is still there.

I am unable to see my future,

Whether it is as bright as the shine of glass,

Back in the mysterious ocean of my past,

Or if it is inevitably destined to remain unchangeable on this shoreline.

Still, I am forever suspended until a slight breeze of change takes me farther in life,

Whether if it is in the wrong or right direction.

A tiny speck of sand amongst billions,

That can only be heard through the poetic lips that drip with truth,

And the truth being that I am the voice for the voiceless.  

I write to express me, myself, and I.

Not abiding by the guidelines set before me,

Not caring about the critics,

Not holding back.

Poetry is my safe haven,

The place where I can just be,

Like a grain of sand,

That has escaped from the mainstream sea.