My yellow wooden weapon.


You are more than just a

wall that over powers me with out stretched arms

and a blank stare.


I write because you respond.

I turn to you with every fear

every vice

every emotion that cannot be expressed by a mere word.

You become my canvas to the mural of my life

compacted into a compisition book mixed with math notes.

You in return reverberate everything I say back in pen

letting me know that you are listening.

Note taken.

You whisper in my ear

"I am here"

and I swear I can feel your lips

sooth my aching skin.

Every bruise


broken skin

at ease.

I write.

I let you know that 

honestly I am still afraid of boys.

17 yet still haven't manifested a Bruce Wayne

willing to protect Gatham city that is my heart..

But seeing you say it assures me that it is okay.

Every now and again

I lie motionless

as if a fly penetrated by vangs

unable to express to you my vulgarity filled life.

Some may call it writers block.

But then on some days. . .

when  the sun is bright

and the wind is stong enough to keep birds soaring

my weapon comes to hand.

Long yellow base

topped off with a lead bullet

piercing the pages that will set me free.

I write.

You keep me between the lines of



and personal Sanctuary.

Each whisk of the pen against the surace

become like waves of the ocean

gracing the tips of my toes.


I write.

And I know you won't ever give me



or even the slightest hint of sympathy,

You are simply at my side for ventilation become combustion.

I become Barrier Rock Falls as these words spew from my mouth.

And even though the world may give me the cold shoulder,

you become the winter pockets of a lover,

keeping my deepest core warm.

That is why I write.


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741