I'm honestly proud of most of my poems even though they're crap. But I am most definitely not proud of this one.
Warning: this sucks.
This sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this sucks, this —

From all the fantasy worlds in my head
To the realities around me that I can bend

From the cold, empty feelings in my glass heart
To overwhelming emotions surrounding me in the dark

Unused notebooks waiting patiently for their turn
Scattered pages littered with words

I'm spilling voices across paper, struck
By the lively stream water, playing their luck

Hundreds of songs soothing at night
Under darkening drops of fading sunlight

From lonely nights spent by the fire
scrawling passion across my paper

To the afternoon baking, and the sweet scent of ginger
wafting around me and into cold air

From the dragon string-core wands blasting light
To the striking ice-blue eyes shimmering bright

From the joyous laughter and the fiery love
To the freezing hurt and venomous fury

I am what I am
Its all me

It's not the identity it gives me
Its what I give my identity

This is where I'm from
This is who I am

This is what I love
This is what I'm made of.

~Aria Ashtri

Idk what I was thinking with this poem — in fact, if there is any mention of ice-blue eyes in any other poem, keep in mind I was probably sleep-deprived and not thinking straight.
SOKEEFE! (Sorry, had to—)