If I used pencils to create a scene rather than words that dance across a page and express my thoughts, I’d draw myself in a bottle; corked, trapped, scared. An ant compared to Thumbelina; my breathless cries for help would be lost on fogged up glass. Echos would punctuate my ears, but like my voice, the drawing would be silent.
Words are the only escape I have from the lion that roars within my soul. I’ve had labels thrown at me by an armchair warrior who campaigns to make themselves superior. I do not walk among the categories in which they place me. I stand strong in my convictions, and know where my life should lead me. I may not yield the power I desire, but I carry strength deep within. For now, let the fogged glass hide my achievements until the pressure of my wisdom and fortitude send that cork flying!
Beautifully Broken 