The Song I Wrote Myself: How Poetry Saved Me From a Mid-Numbing Monster

November 23, 2011
By Ellabell PLATINUM, Columbia, Missouri
Ellabell PLATINUM, Columbia, Missouri
21 articles 1 photo 20 comments

Favorite Quote:
"I have not yet begun to fight!"
John Paul Jones


Not a whisper,
Not a word,
Nor a page to call my own,
Lost without a friend,
Without a song,
Without a home.
I wandered for an eternity
In a cold, desolate land,
Battered by sticks and stones,
My dreams mirages on the sand.
I could hear the others laughing
And I ran , far, far away,
Where I found a place to call my own
That remains unto this day.
An oasis
Free from fear
Their piercing words can’t hurt me here.
And just when their scorching heat
Becomes too much to bear,
I can always reach the water
That I know is waiting there.
A sanctuary made of words
Of paper and of ink
Where my dreams can fly off pages
And finally be free.
And this refuge of mine
Is unknown to all but one,
My sister whom I hold most dear,
And this secret makes its air all the sweeter
And its water twice as clear.
It is my only treasure
One that they cannot take away
And if they knew of the words
That flow from my pen
They would not know what to say.
In the desert there is nothing
But this little world is mine,
They live in a mirage,
I’ve paradise of words that is elegant fine.
Once I was afraid of them
But they can’t hurt me anymore,
Now I see that it is true, what they say,
The pen is mightier than the sword.
Every whisper,
Every word,
Every page to call my own,
I wrote myself a song,
I made myself a home.
So If you’ve dragged yourself across the desert,
Searching for a place where you belong
My advice to you is this:
Build yourself a place to be
And write yourself a song.
Then you will have an oasis too,
Just like I have mine.
Where you can watch your dreams take flight,
And soar into the sky.
Mirages are just visions
But I have dreams
A poet’s heart and rebel’s soul
A mind for magic and timeless themes.
And what do they have?
Only sand.
It slips through their fingers
They can’t catch it in their hands.
As I fly across the desert
On my wings of written words
I’ve got song to sing
Just like the fleeting birds.
I can see the others waiting,
In a circle ‘round a fire.
All of them are rivals,
For them it’s not about living life,
It’s just about survival.
And what will they have
When high school is over?
A uniform, a signature,
A year book without a cover.
And what will I have
When it's over for me too?
Every single word
That has helped to get me through.
Every whisper,
Every word,
Every page I called my own,
The song I wrote myself,
The place I built called home.


The author's comments:
I never liked High school. It's full of kids who don't care about anything but how to do their eye makeup and making themselves look cool. They made fun of my verbose vocabulary and tried to belittle me but I found a solution: reading my own poetry whenever they got on my nerves. Suddenly they didn't bother me as much, and I began to pity them. One night I decided to write a poem about how my own poetry saved me from self-absorbed, sad people, and it has become the best poem yet to help me ignore them.

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