I really wish I could do something more than write bad poetry.

I envy those who can grip pens-
Ideas spilling out of them onto snowy white pages-
Filling them with inky words,
Although they always seem to be the right words,
But me-
I can never describe the thoughts that live in my mind
In simple strings of letters one would find in a dictionary.
I run my fingers against the book,
Hoping it will save me.
But if I could write lines with power-
And trust me, I’ve tried-
What would it mean coming from a teenage girl
Who only pollutes the world?

Whenever the emotions that hide within the deepest chambers of my heart

Become too strong to choke back down,

I just keep writing and writing so I won’t have to feel,

Until there’s nothing left to say,

And this is why when it’s two in the morning,

Instead of getting the sleep that I so desperately need,

I’m sitting on my rooftop and filling every notebook I own with

The words that don’t know how to keep themselves locked up.

The longing to fill nothingness with everything swallows me whole,
And pretty soon,
I’m scribbling words into the margins of math notes with a dull-tipped pencil I found on the floor, not even knowing how I’m putting them together, but at the same time, refusing to stop.

I don’t really know what I’m trying to say,
But then again, I need to say something,
And if the only way I can do it is through writing bad poetry,

Then I will not stop until every little voice screaming within my veins

Knows that what they have to say makes the universe

Shine a little bit brighter every night.