Simple

With a pen in hand,

The words come down,

Onto a simple piece of paper,

Words that mean the world to me.

Poetry?

That's what people see it as.

But,

To me,

It's simple.

These words

They don't just make up my world,

They make up who I am.

My thoughts,

My feelings,

My heart.

I write,

For a selfish reason,

Self-satisfication.

With each word.,

With each letter,

I smile as my hand continues to engrave,

These very words,

Onto a piece of paper.

Conveying to no one but myself,

What feelings I hold.

The reason I write,

Is simple.

I write..

For no one but myself.