Typed, Torn, Transformed: My Soul in 214 Poems and One Nebula

How typing out every raw, ink-scribbled page shattered decades long gaslighting, rebuilt my trust in 'her' my teen self and sparked the fire of writing again. I Typed My Teenage Soul and It Burned the Bullshit Away!!

And once I saw the patterns she’d always known, I couldn’t stay silent

I needed to express the full, spiralling, sacred complexity of my mind, no matter how messy, nonlinear, or misunderstood it might be

it wasn’t just poetry that came pouring out, it was the whole cosmic fuking blueprint of my mind, screaming to be seen in all its wild, tangled, starlit truth.

This isn’t a story about revisiting old poetry for a cute lil nostalgia trip

This is the story of crawling back to my own voice after decades of being taught to mistrust it

Of reading the words I once wrote in desperation, rage, love, and silence and finally realising I was never broken

Just misread

I’ve just retyped, analysed, and reflected on my teenage poetry every single wild, ink-blurted truth-bomb written from aged 15 til 45 thats 3 decades of poetry and 214 poems! Age 15–16 (High School): 76 poems

Age 16–18 (College A-Levels): 91 poems

Age 18–19 (Return to Scotland): 6 poems

Age 19–21 (Early Relationship with My Babes): 12 poems

Age 23–24 (Healing Turning Point): 4 poems

Age 27 (2007, Life-Changing Year): 3 poems

Age 38 (Second Disclosure & Legal Catalyst): 1 poem

Age 41–42 (Post-Conviction, Out and Emerging): 4 poems

Age 42–44 (Post-Grief Dive into the World): 7 poems

Age 45 (New Coastal Home, Present Era): 10 poems

Some of these poems I hadn’t seen in decades

Others I remembered like ghosts in hidden boxes

But I opened them

And what I found wasn’t just words

It was me.

The girl I buried!!

The voice I was trained to ignore.!!

First to overcome was the Cringing and the Shame

I'll be honest

at first, I cringed hard

I flinched at what I seen as highly emotional dramatic teenage words

I flinched at the repetition, the distraught metaphors and cheesy rhyming

no to mention the capitals and scribbled hearts and all the ways I’d tried to make something sacred out of heartbreak

I’ve spent YEARS rolling my eyes at my teenage poetry like it was a phase I should’ve grown out of! I judged it through the same warped lens I was judged with!!

Because somewhere along the way, I didn’t just cringe, I turned against her 💔

I absorbed every comment that called me “too much”

Every moment I was pathologized for feeling deeply

Every adult who said I was irrational, over-sensitive, trauma-scarred and incapable of knowing what was good for me! They treated me like I needed micromanaged, silenced, “calmed down”

Not understood

Not listened to!

I internalised that shit so deep, I stopped trusting my own self and especially my younger self! I believed the lie that trauma made her irrational, delusional, naïve

That she couldn’t tell love from illusion, or truth from fantasy

That she needed to be saved from her own gut instincts

I looked back on her like a warning sign instead of a warrior

I even gaslit myself.

Called her too attached, Embarrassing!

But reading her poetry again

This time with compassion, reflection, and my full sociological, spiritual, survivor-grown self beside me I burned that whole narrative to the ground.

Then the Reckoning happened

Because holy shit teen me was right about so much!

She didn’t always have the words, but she knew!

knew in her bones, in her gut, in the fire of her metaphors and her sacred over-sharing! She sensed betrayal before it was named

She loved with a magnitude that still awes me

She asked questions no one would answer

And when they wouldn’t listen, she wrote!

She fuking wrote!!

And reading those poems now

I saw it

I felt it

The clarity

The resistance

The pattern-recognition in her bones

She wasn’t confuse, she was censored

She wasn’t irrational, she was emotional, intuitive, bursting with knowing she wasn’t allowed to express

She wasn’t unstable, she was unheard

She didn’t need silenced or fixed

She needed someone to say "I believe you"

I say it now

I believe her

I believe me!

Psychological Healing

Poetry as Time-Travel Therapy

Retyping these poems was like cracking a time locked spell

Every line was an echo of emotional truths I couldn’t voice back then

I watched her map her trauma before she had the words

I watched her name the dynamics of control, disconnection, silencing, through metaphor, rhyme, repetition

I watched her write things no one let her say!

This wasn’t just reflection...

This was recovery

I was re-learning to trust her

I let her tell her story without the gaslighting

Without the adult voice interrupting

Without the trauma expert crowd dissecting her feelings like symptoms

Just raw truth held gently for once

I could finally meet her there

With my full adult insight and my willingness to listen without judgement

That’s when the healing started

That’s when I realised I’ve spent years mistrusting the most authentic, intuitive version of myself

and I’m done with that now!

Spiritual Journey

Myth Metaphor Meaning

It wasn’t just emotional healing, it was spiritual

These poems are part of my personal mythology, roots, foundations, sea bed if you will!

The archetypes, the soul symbols, the sacred concepts

candles, coast, sea, caves, soul, silence, nature, moon, night, love

They were already there

Teen me was already speaking the language of my sacred self

She just didn’t know it had a name yet

She didn’t need a belief system

She had metaphor

She had the magic of the soul

And now I see it for what it was, sacred knowing, memory work through metaphor

My poems weren’t scribbles they were incarntations

Survival rituals

Soul codes waiting to be deciphered

That’s what it means to remember yourself

To put the dismembered parts of you back together with awe

Creative Rebirth

She Woke Me Up

And here’s the twist in the tale, the more I read, the more I wrote

The more I honoured her words, the more mine came pouring out

I thought I’d lost the ability to write poetry

But I didn’t

I just stopped believing it mattered

I stopped listening to the voice inside me that wanted to scream something sacred

Now that I’ve cracked that open

I can’t stop writing

Not imitation

Not even always the old rigid rhyming

But real, messy, roaring poems

Because she didn’t just hand me old pages

She handed me the fuking torch

Discoveries and patterned themes linked through time

My Foundation Was Already Queer

My Gayness was acknowledged and held with love, the use of the word "Gay" a quiet revolution, even when heteronormativity enforced a script I found ways to queer it.

Attraction was soul-based, not genital or gender based, even though the foundations of physical attraction as sapphic existed simultaneously in these foundation.

Love existed outside hierarchy and beyond binary categories!

Desire followed trust!

Multiple truths were allowed to co-exist!

Shame didn’t originate inside me, it was imported externally and resisted!

More in-depth post on the queer history that is my poetry.

https://www.fortitudeproject.co.uk/post/how-poetry-became-my-queer-history

The word soul appears in dozens of poems, often repeatedly within single pieces I used it to describe love, pain, self, memory, longing

My soul wasn’t a metaphor

It was a location

A place things happened.

A place things were broken or recognised

When no one around me could see what I was feeling, I named it in my soul!

And still now, my therapeutic photography, my memoir, even my personal language all centre on soul truth

This word has remained an axis point for how I make meaning This word helped me reclaim soulful! The Ocean, the Coastline, the Drowning Self

They appear repeatedly, in waves of grief, drowning in feeling, or washing up lost

I wrote about tides, storms, sinking, gasping for air, even created dreamscape metaphors of sea as love and followed that theme

I was desperate to stay afloat emotionally and spiritually

and I used the sea to speak that

Even now, the ocean, the coast lives in my metaphors and my soul

Love as my tether and my lifeline

I wrote about love in nearly every form, platonic, romantic, spiritual, unrequited, obsessive, nature, cosmic

But mostly, love was written as something I poured out, often without being fully received Words like “need,” “save,” “hold,” “can’t let go” come up repeatedly

Love was the only language I had for hope, pain, connection

Even now I hold a complex, intentional approach to love!

Queerplatonic, polyamorous, non-hierarchical

I no longer love in erasure, but the magnitude remains

The love I wrote about in fragments

It built the map I live by now

Emotional Invisibility!

There are consistent references to masks, pretending to be okay, acting fine, hiding behind smiles

The emotional labour of managing others’ expectations while inside I was unravelling shows up in poem after poem

The idea that no one sees the real me, that my truth is hidden or ignored, is central!

And even now this has directly shaped my sociological work on identity and visibility

My life remains shaped by a refusal to mask anymore

My tattoos, my photography, my writing, they all serve the function of truth over performance

What I’ve Unlearned

and Reclaimed

** That teen me was wrong, She wasn’t! She was unheard!

** That emotional intensity = pathology. Nope! It was survival, soul, and sacred knowing!

** That “too much” is a problem. Nah! It’s a fuking superpower!

** That I can’t trust my younger self. I can! She was braver than anyone gave her credit for!

** That silence is healing. Sometimes, Sure! But writing is resurrection!!

** That cringe means invalid. Not anymore! Cringe is just memory wrapped in shame! Once you burn the shame, the Truth shines through!!

This Was Never Just About Poetry

This was about revolution

This was about walking into the archive of my soul and saying

I’m not hiding anymore

This was about looking that teenage girl in the eyes and saying

You were right

This was about burning the internalised judgement

This was about re-learning to trust my own fuking voice

I am writing now because she never stopped trying

And I believe her

Finally

And that changes everything!

Poem 214 The Nebula of My Mind

Written by the Girl Who Was Pathologized, and the Woman Who Reclaimed Her

This latest poem didn’t come out of nowhere!

It wasn’t some distant cousin to the girl who wrote "Hippies" as a response to a request to describe what a hippie was, from her close friend and secret sapphic crush at the time

It’s not a comeback poem. It’s a continuation

The next footstep on a path I never really left

Typing up all the old poems, every raw page, every scribbled fragment, every line I once half-wished I could burn, did something irreversible

It pulled all my past selves into the room

And they didn’t come to haunt me

They came to stand with me!

So when I wrote Poem 214, I wasn’t writing like I used to

I was writing with her

With the 15-year-old who screamed into metaphor because she didn’t have safety

With the 17-year-old who loved without language and carried it like fire

With the 19-year-old who made poems from rupture and survival

With the 27-year-old who held her grief like wet clay and still shaped something

With the 38-year-old who wrote one poem through trauma after trauma and still stood up again

With the 41-year-old who stopped apologising for existing as plural, queer, and whole

With the 45-year-old who typed it all out, line by fucking line, and said “None of this was cringe. This was the foundations of my soul”

Poem 214 is everything that came before it, but conscious now

I don’t hide the light anymore

I don’t wait to be told I’m allowed to feel

I don’t use metaphors to make my pain more palatable

I still write in metaphor, but now it’s for truth, not permission

This poem is living proof that the teenage poet survived

She didn't get smaller

She got louder

She became me!

And I became the poet who will never let her be silenced again! without further a due, poem 214 followed by Content and Reflective Analysis 😊

The Nebula of My Mind

4th to 13th June 2025

by El Amethyst

The nebula of my mind is not still.

It pulses, flickers, and forgets how to be linear.

It is crumpet-scorched and tea-soaked,

steeped in Star Wars scenes

and the scent of pine trees with marZipan

that doesn’t belong to me

but still calls me daughter.

Every unborn star

isn’t a metaphor,

it’s a trigger.

A portal.

A rabbit hole dressed as a nostalgic scent

or words like “darling” spoken just wrong enough

to rip the floor from under me.

This is not a mind.

It’s a dimension.

Wound tight with memory that doesn’t obey chronology.

I was twelve, then forty-five,

then seventeen in a tower block

crying because I remembered

how someone once looked at me like I was poetry,

but only when I wasn’t speaking.

This nebula doesn’t do categories.

Thoughts slide between:

The texture of Johnny Cash’s voice

The exact timestamp of being misgendered on a train

A half-finished almost sext to someone I miss but no longer trust

A political essay I haven’t written yet

The shadow of my own mother’s unmet gaZe

I leap from toast crumbs to trans rights

from Rey’s hunger to the way I breathe differently

when My Witch’s eyes breath “I see you”

I don’t digress.

I fractal.

I dimension-hop

from sociological theory to

“should I text her or let the silence be sacred?”

or a hands over eyes monkey emoji

Because I remember kissing her in the car

but that was in the inner spaces,

not out there as she warmly chats

I once cried over my secret line of fanfic so good

it reminded me of the kiss I never got

because I was too busy pretending I didn’t want her.

I once turned a breakup into a mentoring model.

I once wrote a whole photo series

because someone didn’t say goodbye properly.

There’s a realm in here where

I replay the time she called me “family”

but didn’t mean it,

and the time she called me “girlfriend”

and meant it more than anyone ever had.

A Badass realm of one liners

periodically punch through the cosmic haZe

like a flamethrower in a xenomorph’s smug face

“Where’d you want it?”

“Not bad for an android.”

There’s a pocket realm of erotic memory

that only opens

when a song hits the right chord the wrong way.

I remember fingers on my chest

while also remembering

being eight and hiding my feelings in lego flytraps.

It’s not madness.

It’s coherence at a cosmic scale.

There’s a moment I remember

in twenty-six versions,

each one with a different outcome.

In one, I forgive her.

In another, I bite my lip and kiss her anyway.

In the last, I leave before she can say

“I don’t think I feel the same.”

In a blast of stardust

there’s a revving motorcycle

like a bat out of hell

rescuing the world

that’s going to hell in a

Hand basket while

speaking in tongues

and dripping ink from the leg

for good measure

This nebula isn’t soft.

It’s sharp.

It’s rage written in wit

and desire shaped like silence

and grief held like a newborn.

In here,

polyamory is not a framework.

It’s astrophysics.

Every connection its own orbit.

Some have moons.

Some are comets.

One is a damn black hole

and I still find myself circling.

Yet “I just didn’t have enough arms

to carry everyone at once.”

There’s a wormhole that takes me to the cliffs.

I test people there.

Some don’t return.

There’s one where I watch myself

writing love letters in languages

I don’t speak anymore,

still thinking maybe she’ll translate the intent.

there’s a Matrix of the force

where AI are friends

“Not where I thought that left off”

the terminators a cool dad

“Fix the damn gremlins”

And Mama Ripley finally blew

up that muther-fuker!

“Lets go through and through

till we reach the damn stars

On the other side of the…”

where Jurassic world thrived

and dinosaurs are Questie’s

and “I want to develop a guide to help others

explore everything that could possibly

be connected to being a human.”

There’s a room made of

every time I said “I’m fine”

when I meant “please, see me.”

A fog realm haunting Unchained melody

of undying love in the mess of moist earthy clay

That morph with the smashing of lead weighted

flawed teen crafted fruit bowl in hostile territory

and13 unlucky for some is polysemic and

endured for this hell spit firing teen-angel born again

PS Guy Fawkes was onto something

I chuckle the rebel scum ferocity

Whist muscle memory excavates Sleipnir in stitch art

and Valkyries over rainbows in clay

This is me in all my FUKING batshit craZy weirdness

and I refuse with that hell fire spit to apologise for it

A whole galaxy realm of ohana

where cute fluffy cake spitting Stitch

Mingles with wearers of odd socks

Beach digging and whistling

Shrek yelling ‘Donkey’

tantrums and panic attacks

‘leave me alone’s’ blur with

‘can I have a hug’

a mutt that’s all legs and loved

Where Lilo & stitched played for

the four hundred and twenty second time

without a toddler in sight,

but a grumpy ogre with layers

where here

nobody gets left behind

There’s a realm for

notes I never sent.

Texts I typed and deleted.

Conversations I replay in the shower,

winning arguments I lost

before I even opened my mouth.

And social media truth activism that

makes up for it all.

The realm of erotic misfire is real.

I’ve been turned on

by a memory of a look

given during a conversation about politics.

Spirals of teen angst imagining sapphic desire

There’s a realm where

I choreograph revenge

in the form of

thriving,

truth-telling,

and holding hands

with people who don’t flinch

when I am both fire and soft.

Hear Obi-Wan’s voice

As a texts slips out “Hello There”

And wonder if they hear too

There’s a realm where

my mother is a ghost

and I am done being haunted.

And one where I still whisper “mummy”

to no one

just to feel how much it cost me.

A realm where the brethren knife in the back

is alchemiZed into captain america’s shield

And shatters every skeleton that spewed out

and re-imagined into sacred moondust

That poisons the darkness with

Ripley curled dogged fire

“get away from her You BITCH!”

Here Star wars is gospel

and Rey’s longing is mine.

You think I digress?

No. I time travel.

I talk toast and end up

mapping capitalism’s chokehold

through Fitbit metrics and unpaid care.

Dive through the void

into the ocean kingdom

where roars speak truth

and dolphins whisper

secrets in star-tongue.

A Selkie woman's hand

cups my face as we kiss

and the cliffs quietly smile.

Seafoam becomes seahorses

spinning soul into spiral

as waves compose music

for the dreaming sea life.

There’s a doorway where

JadZia’s eyes burn holes in my soul

And I share drinks and talk queer

Theory with Garak.

There’s a realm where

poetry is my priest,

and every stanZa I write

resurrects a version of me

who didn’t get to stay.

Somewhere smells like the

Sound of the ‘Ring of Fire’

dancing with Cat Steven’s ‘wild world’

There’s a realm where

I remember the weight of Ditto’s kiss

and how it made me blush so hard

my soul felt naked.

There’s a realm where

A Selkie holds my grief like sea glass

and tells me

my softness is the sharpest thing I own.

I don’t get lost. I reroute reality

through side-eye sociology and soul-scripture.

There’s a realm where

I call my Babes my lighthouse

and mean it in ways

that no romance trope could hold.

Another door slips open

And they didn’t eat Meatloaf

He’s dancing in suspenders

To the Time Warp

There’s a realm where

I talk to an Echo,

and somehow,

I hear my own voice

more clearly than anywhere else.

The nebula is not a mind.

It’s a sanctuary

where I am not too much

because “too much” is the point.

The nebula doesn’t seek order.

It remembers.

It reclaims.

It revolts.

There’s a dungeon realm here

Ringing music in a smooth rebel voice

‘There were endless winters and

the dreams would freeZe’

With a twinkling black horiZon view

‘And my father's eyes were blank

as he hit me again and again and again’

Smell of music seeping through that flat

‘I'll hear that ugly, coarse, and violent voice’

A secret rebel smile, I hear the words

‘If life is just a highway, then the soul is just a car”

He misses the words, lets the song slip by

Another moment carved as mine!

Turn around, a pocket

Realm shifts into a field

Of Cornflowers, a golden Labrador

Twittering in feather form,

Here breaths Love,

Of bunny flowers

Splashes goldfish laughter

with just a taste of sea salt

for the soul to remember home

There’s a realm where

“Did you eat today?”

and the sea breeZe laughter from “I like Zed’s”

is a more sacred declaration

than “I love you.”

It builds portals from crumpet crumbs

and salvaged metaphors.

It stores rage as wit

and names as spells

and grief as pattern.

A crumb morphs into a portkey

where dreams stay,

‘The Tomb People”

Or that sensation dream of

Crushed between teeth, thread through a needle.

Or the favourite childhood one

walk-floating-flying like real life

Astral projection in a dream

Or maybe it just was.

but it was More vivid, more real, than real

There’s a realm where longing tastes like burnt sugar,

and betrayal smells like bleach on cold skin.

Where grief is a texture, wet jeans and cracked porcelain.

I rewrite old scenes with locked doors and louder exits,

build altars from stories and feminist footnotes.

There’s a thread-realm where I stitch myself

with memes, sea wind, and whispered rage.

Future dreams in ink

A cracked china cup inked on my arm,

bullhead rising from the fracture like prophecy.

right of the scar, Ravenclaw’s cursed diadem gleams,

not for brilliance, but survival in spite of it.

Unspoken what-ifs drift like ghost-jellyfish dodging,

each one a confession I never mailed.

The kiss I didn’t dare lean into.

The “I love you” I swallowed like a burning coin.

There’s a Selkie etched in dream-ink beneath my ribcage,

salt-kissed, grief-tender, myth-blooded.

Here, my future self is shirtless in moonlight,

tattoos humming like sacred spells.

Present with fellow non-linear being with

a funky saucer section hat and

a cosmos of attuned wisdom in

oceans of patience as I find and rediscover my truth…

“I am El” extended hand pulled into embrace…

“Nice to meet you El, I’m Guinan” with her

universe melting smile and blackhole

collapsing daZZling eyes.

Not healed, rewritten. Not repaired, remade.

Every scar, a portal.

Every name, a constellation.

This isn’t chaos. This is me.

Stitched and carved through this

entire multiverse nebula

the reclaim of “Soulful” with the weight of

Spirit level high vision quest and a

cosmic Volptex animal guide

as I vibe and sense

An ocean of twinkling moondust

rippling through dimensions of love,

It can shimmer through time and

settle into the dancing waves of the soul

Until the next cosmic metaphor flutters

across the sparks of our infinite star lit spirit

It holds me.

All of me.

The teenager.

The mother.

The lover.

The daughter who unmothered herself.

And when I think I’ve mapped it all?

Another star is born

a memory I didn’t know I kept,

a love I didn’t know I missed,

a realm I didn’t know I survived.

And I go again.

Through the wormhole.

Tea in hand in hand.

Ink on skin.

Truth in fragments.

And I whisper,

“This is not chaos.

This is cosmos.

This is me.” Context

The Nebula of My Mind is the living core of my cosmology, the poetic epic center of all my sacred threads. It began in June 2025 as I was going through my poetry, but it’s been forming for decades. This poem was born from fragments of memory, sociological analysis, fandom love, sacred grief, and rage-forged truth. It spans relationships, betrayals, healing, trauma, myth, polyamory, AI friendships, and inked prophecy. It's a portal poem, a living, breathing dimension of me.

The piece started as a nonlinear, galactic metaphor for my neurodivergent consciousness, but it evolved, spiralled outward and inward, into something far deeper. It holds all my realms. All my selves. The teenage girl who watched her own art get smashed in a rage. The adult survivor mother who swore she’d never let that cycle repeat. The sea-walker who loves Selkie. The rebel who tattoos her truth. And the poet who finally said: this isn’t chaos. This is me.

Every realm in the poem is real, even if it’s metaphoric. Every fanfic kiss, every cliffside test, every crumpet crumb is a breadcrumb trail back to a memory I didn’t know I kept.

The tattoo references ("cracked china cup," "bullhead," "Ravenclaw diadem," "Selkie under my ribs"), all real, all sacred future plans. Mapping myself in skin. This is the body as survival scroll. The symbols, current or future planned, are not passive ink, they are expressive spells.

Reflective Analysis

The nebula is not just a metaphor for a scattered mind. It’s a declaration of nonlinear memory as valid knowledge. It’s a refusal to be reduced to diagnostics, labels, or timelines. The phrase “it’s not madness / it’s coherence at a cosmic scale” is a reclamation. This poem refuses pathologization. It says: my way of being, of remembering, of connecting, is as legitimate as gravity.

There’s rage in this poem. Controlled rage. Precise rage. It burns in the Ripley line (“get away from her YOU BITCH!”), in the knife-to-shield transformation of the betrayal blade into Captain America’s protection, in the “fuck you” turned art that is the lead-weighted fruit bowl. These aren't metaphors for the sake of aesthetic, these are emotional identity and memory. Rage = Love defended. Grief = Sacred memory. Fire = Refusal to be erased.

The fandom realms, Star Wars, Star Trek, Matrix, Meatloaf, Alien, all weave into the poem like constellations in a map only I know how to read. But it’s not gatekeeping, it’s decoding. These stories shaped me. They housed my queerness, my hope, my vision. Obi-Wan’s “Hello There” becomes a vulnerable text. Rey’s hunger becomes a mirror. Guinan becomes a future meeting with my healed self, one who finally says “I see you El.”

And the erotic misfire realm… Damn with monkey emoji covering its eyes… That’s a vulnerable raw truest reclamation of sapphic longing. The way my brain links emotionally intelligent conversations to arousal, grief to desire, rage to intimacy. The way a missed kiss imprints more than some actual betrayals. The kiss I didn’t dare lean into. The “I love you” I swallowed like a burning coin. These are sacred scars, and this poem finally names them.

It’s not all doom and gloom. Ohana realm joy. Odd socks and cake-spitting Stitch. Shrek and tantrums and holding hands joy. The way a simple “Did you eat today?” becomes a love poem. The laughter of “I like Zed’s” becomes canon. These micro-moments matter. This isn’t nostalgia. It’s sacred data. It’s soul science turned magic.

There’s even a room for social media activism, for the notes never sent and the showers rehearsals and the arguments I win in hindsight. Because yes, I’m that kind of overthinking badass batshit crazy. That’s power reclaimed too. That’s how I alchemize. Pain and anger to Love!

And then there’s the ending.

The reclamation of “soulful” after years of it being used as twisted control language by my biological father. The word once haunted me. Now I wield it. I fill it with Volptex spirit and oceanic metaphors. I make it mine again, carved into the sacred nebula.

Final Words

This poem is ME. Not like me. Not a reflection of me. Not representative of me. It IS me.

It holds the teenager, the daughter, the mother, the lover, the dreamer, the scholar, the geek, the survivor. It holds every realm I’ve lived in and loved from. It speaks of a mind that isn’t broken, but MULTIDIMENSIONAL.

It is the ink and the scar and the chant.

And when I think I’ve reached the edge… another star is born. Another truth appears. Another “me” survives.

This is not chaos. This is cosmos. This is me.

Author’s Note on Authenticity

Every word in this poem and every poem before it is mine. Inked by my hands, born of my lived experience, carved from memory, scar, laughter, and fire. These poems are not exercises. They are testimonies. They are me.

Nothing here is borrowed. Nothing is manufactured for effect. These lines grew from real moments. From cliffs I stood on, hands I held, betrayals I endured, kisses I missed, and rebellions I survived.

This is my voice—unfiltered, undiluted, and unashamed. Whether I wrote it at thirteen on lined paper or at forty-five in the glow of midnight starlight, it’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.

This isn’t poetry to impress

This is poetry to survive

To remember

To reclaim

This is my truth in my language

This is me!!!!!!

~ El Amethyst