I was depressed at a young age,
Becoming a new person every day,
Never crying, emotions looking for a way out.
It came to me three quarters into sixth grade.
I paused from running away to stare at a golden page.
5 months of being mute, I had something to say now.
"Poetry contest" was plastered on the wall.
"Published" was my siren call.
Finally, someone would hear my cry.
They would see the part of me I had to hide.
I'd shouted before and people ignored it all.
Then my pen screamed. The foundation called it "raw".
And I knew thousands of people would be reading words of mine.
So I roared.
I yelled at the top of my lungs until my throat was sore.
I'd gotten a taste and I wanted more.
I'd sunk to the lowest depths, but now my words could soar.
My pen was forever connected to paper,
Messages to every lover, hater, relater.
My words could be used to calm conflict but also be an instigator.
My poems wrote my story.
I realized they were my maker.
And I felt so powerful,
I felt so… full.
I was filled.
I was full.