Since I started writing poetry,

every composition notebook I write in starts with

9 blank sheets of paper.

Every poem I write has been hidden behind

9 blank sheets of paper.

For what would people think of

the class clown who uses girls, gets in fights, and

      parties,

but also pours his emotions into a composition notebook?

For what would someone think of someone who

empties his veins into poetry?

I hide behind those

9 blank sheets of paper, but my mind is always racing

and one day I will fill all of the empty pages with

     words.

 

One day

all of the once-empty spaces, 

blank canvases, will be covered by my thought.

One day

you will notice my pleas for help.

One day

my words will resound off of the cavernous walls in

your mind, echoing off

the dead branches eternally reaching for the sky.

You have led me to this point,

but until that day I will hide

behind

9 blank sheets of paper.