I find myself
Listening to the scratching,
The loudness of pencil against paper.

Writing down my soul
Writing down my heart.

The sound of graphite,
Hitting my pretty lined paper,
Helping me escape,
The everyday distress, of this world.

I sit there watching the pile
Grow larger,
And larger.
Bigger, and bigger

Old and new ideas,
Combined in one,
In a mountain of discarded ideas.

I continue writing,
Words flowing on my paper,
Splattered across my page,
Like a child’s abstract art

Like a Child's abstract art
My writing makes no sense.
Like a child’s abstract art….
It’s beautiful to me