Fixing the Broken Light Bulbs

Growing up, I loved my room full of its toys and joys and accompanied hues of reds and blues

Acting as a nursery, bright and spacious, my thoughts and ideas festered inside me, and my room continued to enlighten me

As the years passed, my ideas faded and my room became jaded

It appears the darkness beyond my walls crept in from my parent’s room as it tried to escape their daily brawls

Day by day, my light bulbs seemed to dim, the darkness putting me on the rim

The once reds and blues, turned darker with anger and depression, leaving me to my own suppression

Living in a deteriorating household was extremely infuriating

My mouth could not seem to open and cry out for help, but my hand guided me to my journal to describe the pain I felt

Before I knew it, I began writing and the benefits were exciting

Words flowing from my pencil like water in a river, this new sense of joy and freedom to express myself made me shiver

As I wrote, the flicker of my lights seemed to go away, encouraging me to leave my negative thoughts astray

Poetry seemed to be the answer to me coping with ironically feeling alone in a house full of troubles and perspective doubles, until the problem finally seemed clear, expressing ourselves was my family’s fear

They say there’s power in numbers but I believe there’s power in words, as those left unsaid, can divide a group into thirds {like my family dynamic}

In a classroom full of my parent’s problems and arguments, with poetry as my teacher, I learned to always express myself and control my anger before it feels like you’re locked in a chamber

Suffocated by my surroundings, I was left with no air until poetry was the answer to all my prayers