Free

To be free, To be me, That's what it's like to write poetry. When I'm alone, When I'm lost, The pen and paper find me. I hold on, Like a whirlwind that entangles me, And pulls me into the depth of my reality, I reach for the pad. And like nowhere else, I have a voice, I have thoughts. As the words pass through my mind, They float onto the page, Covering inch by inch, Until there're all dry. And as I stare down at those blots of ink, I smile, For no one else knows it but me, they are what make me free.