Identity

I am lost within a dream,
my hands clasped to keep the light out,
My green eyes cracked
to see the least possible,
To keep my childish ideals safe.

my lips, like icecapped flood gates,
Keep my creativity, my whole,
blistering within. I have no words but cheap
Pleasantries, no sounds besides the mundane.
if only my brain had a voice,
You'd hear me world, you'd discover the beauty within.

I'm bursting with passion,
with experience, with stories...
I am poetry.
I embody it.
it is my pain, my power, my vechile,
My advantage.

when the time comes,
My fingers, my imagination, my soul will speak for me.
I needn't a throat, a voicebox, a sputtering tongue.
my story will come to me
And I--yes, I--the silent, the awkward--

will be ready.

(The pattern of capitalization is meant to placed as so--there are no mistakes--there needn't be concrete rules to poetry, at least not in this situation.)
(Also, this poem was written in an exercise to express the 'beauty' within myself and in an attempt the write a poem/love letter to myself [I went to a week long camp where the participants were made to 'explore' ourselves and the preconceptions that are attached to us. Quite interesting, actually.]. Of course, the meaning is plain within the text--I don't love myself--merely the words I spit upon paper. Or, so and so, along those lines. So don't bash it entirely, because it's a work in progress.)