Trebuchet

I write.

I write to stay alive.

Since I can remember, there's been a burning itch under my skin,

something I couldn't quite scratch, something I thought was sin

I was afraid I was wrong. I was afraid of my own being

I was afraid of being and seeing

Myself in the mirror, each and every day,

and the hate, that sick self hate wouldn't go away,

and that itch, it burned, it lit, it turned to fire

from the moment I met a boy and learned what desire

really was to me, and oh, oh it made me so angry.

I needed an outlet, I needed a cause

a place to lash my angry words and viper tongue

because everyone close to me, they were lashed and whipped

all because I couldn't handle it,

the itch, the itch, burning under my skin.

I took up a pen, and some red paper, 

and from there my thoughts began to taper

down into ink and into words I learned

from books I once read, and oh, oh it burned

at first. It stung, and I retreated

but I knew, I knew it was exactly what I needed

to stay alive, to live, to breathe

and from that day poetry became a part of me,

it became my vessel, my savior, my friend

and I turn to her time and time again,

to save my life, or soul, or whatever you believe

all I know is she saved me.