Within the lines of fate, my hand did trace,
A script I inherited, my mother's grace.
Yet, like ink upon a blank sheet, I yearn to be free,
To find my own style, to let my soul be.
In the curves and loops, in every line,
I seek my own voice, a language that's mine.
A journey of discovery, an intricate dance,
As I pen new tales, I break free from circumstance.
No longer confined by expectations of old,
I explore new forms, my story yet untold.
In the ebb and flow, the strokes and lines,
My true handwriting emerges, a reflection that shines
It’s just so freeing, healing, and validating to be able to be myself, even if most of it is here, where no one knows who I am unless I have directed them here. To speak my truth, to be heard and understood. I would’ve never been able to do this, if my mother didn’t discard me. Believe it or not, I’m becoming more thankful for that, every day. The events in my life had to happen the way they did, for me to be the person I am today.
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