Why I Write

My poetry hides

In the unsuspecting death

Of my sanity.

Deep within my heart

Concealed secrets forbid me

From my peace of mind.

Desperate am I

To discover the meaning

Of my constant pain.

Paper and pencils

Are all who listen to me;

Despite my thin pleas.

Prose and short stories

I never thought I possessed

Flow from shaking hands.

My love, my passion

Inevitably rescues

Me from myself.