Every handwriting is a confession, A silent unveiling of self. Each one, in its own way, Truely is beautiful. Not always to the world, but always to someone, To a loved one who knows the story, Between the lines and its flaws. Some scripts are gentle, Pleasing like a soft breeze across calm waters. Others are wild, Chaotic like crashing waves With ink that forgets to follow the rules. I began with neatness, With letters that stood like soldiers in a row. Over time, it crumbled, the lines faltered, the strokes wavered. My words lost their shape. But then, quietly, they found their rhythm again. I never truly had a handwriting, just strokes and sketches, drawings of words that barely knew themselves. Until one day, I traced the lines back to me. And in that steady form, I met my own reflection. Now, I hold it with pride. Imperfect, evolving, but unmistakably mine. It may not be flawless, But it is honest, It is me, My treasure, My fingerprint, My deepest identity. To you, maybe rand...