A/N: Something I just wrote as thinking out loud. Would appreciate reviews on the subject matter more than the format, please.

I read poetry

Sometimes the raw angst is the most beautiful.

Not the kind that is contrived

In an attempt at fitting in

But the kind that is honest - made of cold steel and cartridges.

No punctuation, no capitalization,

Nothing holding it in place - no sense, no order.

It is beautiful, poignant, rough, raw, bare, driven.

But I can't stand it.

-

I listen to music

My brother asks if I have anything "less bouncy"

I do not. But yet - I do, hidden back

Far away, I do not listen to it.

The rawness, the realness, of such blatant pain.

Maybe I simply cannot handle it,

Or the fact that its imperfection makes it beautiful.

I say about myself that I desire excellence,

But is that so?

-

There's a fine line that defines me

I cannot conceive of life as absolutely brutal.

I came out of pain, but it did not destroy me.

The scattered remains of destruction,

So often beautiful in others,

Did not make me.

The strength and beauty of health and wholeness.

That is what made me.

But why?

-

What preset dial

Decided that some would be scarred beyond repair,

A shattered crystal pane - beautiful in its delicate designs -

And others would become a solid perfection

Neatly balanced. Nicely placed.

I do not know.

I believe in happiness, in love, in life, in perserverence.

I believe in a God that wouldn't leave me,

But is that all?