Poetry,

A outlet for me, even at the age of three,

Writing became my therapy,

In my darkest moments, hidden from the world, 

Alone, scared, silent,

My fingers searched for my pen and paper,

My only confidante.

Writing, writing, slowly, finding...

Who am I supposed to become?

The turtle I am, my reclusive shell, finally allowing, once in a while, my head to tentatively poke, and see,

The world my ambitious family coax me to conquer.

This big, wide, world, 7 billion people growing, for little me, for me to compete.

I'm not sure if I'll become queen,

Of anything really.

I don't know if I'll ever get to meet

The new and improved, the perfect me.

I don't even know,

If I'll ever be, 

The person my family and everyone around me,

Wishes for me to be.

But one one thing I know, 

For certain,

For sure,

Poetry will be there, as it's always been,

When the world's too cold for me to be in.