You judge me as I speak

You judge my style of dress

You laugh at my beliefs

And brush aside my hopes and dreams

 

I feel lost because

I want to voice my fears

I want you to hear

My dreams, my hopes, things

I hold most dear

 

But you don’t want to listen

You hate hearing things

That you do not agree with

And so there’s only one thing I can do

 

I write and write and write until

The page is filled with my desires and my hesitations

I write in verse, in prose, in rhymes

I write until the only space that’s left

Are the tiny margins to the left and right.

 

The page soaks up the words

And with them myself

Until the poem is filled with me

And I filled with just that poem.

 

And  in the end, there is something that was patient

That listened to the hopes and dreams you brushed away

There is something in this world that will know me

Like no one ever knew before

Something called, “My Poem”.