People see me shine like a trophy.
They see me as a couple of irises.
As I spin, twirl, and rise.
They complement my depth.
Acknowledge my intelligence.
And study my complications, some even love them.

Now, forgive my ungraceful act of thanklessness; but doesn’t those words fit oddly on a fifteen-year old’s face?
Why love her complications when she’s a bundle of youth and joy.
Why dive into the nonexistence trench when it’s surface deep.
Because I’m not the renaissance nor am I the French revolution, I’m just a poet.

A girl with given the privilege of a pen and paper, spilling nonsense nobody reads.
Truly, inside I’m just a bouquet of lavender that’s about to be walked down the aisle.
I’m not dried, and I’m not hung.
I’m freshly picked and I’m vibrant.