As the room becomes smaller, while the silence pierces my ears with its cries

I see the crowded emptiness consume me as the walls close in

Yet, there is a glimmer in the distance, from which the distance grows as the room gets smaller

And I reach, and fall, and reach until my fingertips glow when they make contact with the thing figure

Its ink stains my nails as it warms my hand with its promise of sanity, and guides me across my wide ruled notebook paper to express my grievances and thoughts and mindsets

It holds to me and tries its best to keep my promises

And it relieves all

Except

The loneliness within its use

It feels as though the feelings I have are only mine

“That is not bad” the figure would tell me as it would add that to the list I scripted on my couplet

But, that doesn’t mean that it’s good, that doesn’t mean that it’s write? Right? But my fingers won’t cease scripting the pain and happiness

My wide ruled paper, ripped and torn, still hugs me and begs to be my outlet

And I gain more knowledge, more exposure

Shakespeare, Edgar Allen Poe, Marian Moore, Maya Angelou

I am not alone

I never was, I only believed so

And if that figure never brought itself to my hand

If that paper never took my broken grievances upon its solid lines

That room would have closed in on me

I would have drowned in the thoughts that I poured onto those papers

I would have lost my breath, lost my strength, lost my will to have either

I give thanks to the three most important P’s that saved me from myself

Pen, Paper, Poetry