The Blooming of a Flower

I always knew I had an imagination,

a brain filled with stories that could jump off a page.

But things happened, 

dark things that sent my life reeling. 

I could not find fourteen year old self,

trying to over confiscate in sports and studies.

Feeling empty in the end, 

a very good friend got me my first journal. 

I would put all of my feelings into the ink and paper, 

flowing on the page flawlessly.

I finally found myself,

I even began to laugh again.

I was finding my identity and purpose, 

even through the world was pushing me back.

Even now,

I feel the most at home with my pad of paper and pen.

When friends are done listening and music doesn’t suffice,

the paper is always there to absorb my words and document my feelings forever. 

Now at seventeen, 

my passion has not dulled with time. 

It has gotten stronger,

and refined by time.

The person that I am,

and the person that I want to be will always have ink stained fingers.

People write for many reasons, 

but I write to feel like I belong. 

The paper never gets tired of feeling my emotions,

or gets frustrated because I can’t seem to move on.

It is always there and always will,

that is why I write.