I have poems tucked away in notebooks,
Folded up and shoved into abandoned pockets,
Scribbled on the palm of my hand, and the margins of my homework,

Poems that might make you laugh,
And others that could make you cry,
Poems that will make you reconsider everything you thought about me.

I put pen to paper and ink spreads down the page,
Like food coloring in water,
Until a half empty glass looks half full,

Because that’s what color does;
Makes people see the bright side,
Unless you’re a writer like me,
And black and white is a good thing.

Words are my median,
This writing, my art,
But it’s more than just that,
It’s a piece of my heart.

I write from the depths of my soul
And it makes me feel whole,
Like all the broken parts of my life
Come together on the page.

I write when I’m happy,
And I write out of rage.

I write because my hands can say things that my mouth cannot,
And they can so much better express my thoughts,
Than the words that roll of my tongue,
Most of them accidental,
Things I never meant to say,
And once they come out, you can’t take them away.

But paper can be burned and nobody ever has to know it was there,
Unlike words that are heard, then hang in the air,
Paper can be washed in the pocket of your favorite jeans,
And blue denim, and blue ink, and blue lines all bleed together,
And disappear.

But words that are said out loud leave wounds that bleed together,
And never heal,
So that’s why I write,

You can try to read between the lines of my life,
But my lines aren’t in what I say,
They’re in those poems hidden away,

And they aren’t just words on paper, they’re lifelines
To keep me from drowning at sea,
So no.
I won’t let you see,
Because then you might steal them away,
And leave the water to rush in around me,
Or you could even use my words against me,

So call me selfish,
But these lines, these rhymes are all I have.
Even when I count my blessings,
I know it’s true,
Because everything can be taken away from me,
Everyone can walk out, even you,

But tucked away in notebooks,
Folded up and shoved into abandoned pockets,
Scribbled on the palm of my hand and the margins of my homework,
I’ll still have words.