Astrologists were wrong when they said I never show my emotions.
I've always been the outcast and the crybaby of the family but poetry is my devotion.
I don't care who knows or finds out about my secret love.
My emotions can't set me free from this cage like the whitest dove.
Should I keep going or stop my writing motion?
God was wrong when he sent me to be born on September Eleventh.
I'm nothing like a Virgo, please just call me an Amaranth.
War, love, and hate describe me on any given day.
When I look at her, the war ends and I'm tempted to stay.
In my mind I'm another ordinary kid that arrived the umpteenth.