What I am allowed to say,

what society says is okay,
I care not for it, but I write it anyways,

because that’s one of the things

they say is alright to write. 

I scratch and scribble frantically to fill paper

with nothing more than meaningless fluff.

Somedays though, the real stuff seeps in.

When the emotion starts barring down

on the doors of my mind, the tight restraint

I keep locked around the thoughts I have inside—

breaks— and that’s when it becomes more.

The moment the words themselves start to feel—

and you can’t help but sympathize,

their emotion so real that you feel you must

fling open the door to let them out.

Otherwise I’d have to call myself a murderer,

because those words are people,

the one’s who were let down,

the one’s whose voices were drowned out.

So I speak, or rather, write.

I am their mouths, and the things they dare not say.

I write what I should, and I type what they deem okay,

but sometimes, I proudly say what should be said,

and my words become legends.

I stand among those before me, in spirit of the pen,

because when I write poetry, I find myself all over again.