Me.

The wind that brushes against my face,
the scars on my left hand that I trace,
And the mountains that I stand on,
Remind me of how courageous I have been,
Despite the hurdles, I have managed to grin.
Every word that I write shouts out loud,
"You have been standing alone in this crowd,
And never have you stumbled,
Nor once have you shuddered".
I look back at these words and smirk,
My poetry indeed has been a work,
of comfort and solace,
That I failed to find in this world.

Ps it got printed in Us Magazine, The News.