The world confines me,

It puts me in a darkness.

People abuse me, 

They think I am heartless.

But my thoughts are open,

They are alive.

I can write them on paper,

And believe I will survive.

The words are my comfort,

Like a cozy warm blanket.

Almost like a warm summer,

It depends on how you take it.

Poetry is art, 

It's soothing to me. 

With this pen,

I can pour out my heart,

And let the pages bleed.