As I pick up my pen to write a letter to my former self,
the girl with so many regrets and lost love.
The girl with so much love she often wears her heart on her sleeve, and then love inevitably get lost in this world of hate.
I'm suddenly overcome with lots of emotions.
My tears begin flooding every inch of my journal which was a metaphor for my life so broken but still here. My hands tremble as I pick up the pen again attempting to leave my perfectly imperfect imprint. That's just it I'm flawed.
Yes, I'm imperfect I begin to scribble down earnestly. As I come to the end of my entry, I place my pen back down. Suddenly my thoughts are loss at sea like the Titanic on its last maiden voyage. On April 14-15, 1912 Titanic sink with so many dreams and aspirations still tucked in behind it freshly painted lavish doors. Like the Titanic, I have so many ideas, and ambitions tucked deep within my soul I'll leave the end of my entry for the day when all my dreams are perceived, and I'm living my perfectly imperfect life to the fullest. Dear me my dearest write your ending.