Writing Lets Me

My solid face contains no sign of the withering emotions corroding my mind as I escape from the society stricken dungeon our parents call “school” My throat tightens before my skin prickles with the excitement of seeing the coffee stained notebook I grasp the special pen without knowing what words it will spell Then I feed from the melodic high flowing through dubious fingers before my sensitivities drown the paper below me The monsters clogging my gullet are dissipated Writing lets me breathe. I cannot speak emotions. I cannot converse about life or death to anyone Except My paper My thoughts dance through my hands While my soul disconnects from my body Writing lets me fly. It lightens the oppressions I silently carry Each shadow that wafts around my mind Each terror that hammers against my spirit Is devalued as I place them on paper Writing lets me be free. Through the days when new bruises form And days when they are soothed by love sweeter than honey The pen and paper sit on an ancient desk like a shrine Waiting for my callused hands to relieve my anxious mind Writing lets me feed my addiction. Even when I have exhausted my creativity And my head is throbbing I find myself again reaching for that utensil, Still glowing with artistic satisfaction Writing doesn’t involve their opinions, Doesn’t laugh at my elaborate descriptions Writing lets me be me.