Poem is just a scrambled "mope"

That empty box where were supposed to type this poem. I'm supposed to fill it with how it affected my life, why i write. The books i was forced to read at 4. The words i scrawled over the walls and floor. The ink running through my veins, splashing onto the page. Screaming words i couldnt mutter alloud. Broken spirit and bones, the scars of school, horrible sounds,  these words are my sage. It built my bravery, the flowing ink darkened. It gave me the bravery to say what i always wanted. It held the pills, postponed it. It showed me love and connection outside of the box. graced me to a path with others who's been through alot. Knowing what runs through my body, the source is my beating heart, pondering to stop it all with the kiss of a knife. So you ask, why poetry, how did it affect you rolling the dice? These words, poetry, it saved my life.