I began to write

When I was twelve;

And at first, I couldn’t

Do it very well.

Yes, I could rhyme,

But I used many clichés,

But I started writing for a boy,

So I wrote every day.

He showed me his words

He’d send through a computer screen,

I was mesmerized,

And in love,

With a boy I’d never seen.

I played with rhymes

To reflect my heart’s yearning

For the boy who logged off

And wasn’t planning on returning.

But I gripped onto my pencil

As if it were a sword,

To battle my inner demons

And so it started this writer’s war.

When I would reach my limit,

My words would ease my aggravation,

When others around me,

Looked toward razors for their salvation.

For every drop of blood,

That my friends would shed,

I would write another poem,

To silence the voice within my head.

I couldn’t express vocally,

What my heart constantly screamed,

So with tears and ink,

I set my conscience free.

I look at the world around me,

Searching for peace that isn’t there.

So I close my eyes and create the place

Where I can roam with flowers in my hair.

What I cannot see,

My pencil illustrates with words for me,

Even when my dreams become blurred.

When I cannot speak,

My writing provides the answers people seek,

So I don’t have to spare a single word.

Because of writing,

I have had chances

That were not there before

To express my thoughts

And opinions,

Giving myself a full system restore.

People think they need things

Or drugs or people or love

To fill the emptiness in their soul,

All I need is my mind,

My hand, my pencil, and paper,

To feel complete,

To feel whole.