Written Path

My pen hit the paper

and just started running.

I couldn't stop it.

It ran

and ran

and ran.

My blood, sweat, and hard work was my ink

(still is).

I wrote on napkins

and placemats,

my body,

as well as desks and homework.

Writing became my outlet for everything.

Upset?

Poem.

Happy?

Poem.

Angry?

Poem.

No, they weren't all great.

But I wrote because I could.

I write because I can.

It's not something I can control anymore.

This is a world not made for little, innocent girls that just want to read.

That little girl ran away.

Now it's just me...

With a pen

and some paper.

I'll always write about that little girl that likes to read.

That little girl used to be me.

When I think of her,

I choke up,

I can't breathe.

I can't see.

My pen runs wild like I do.

My pen runs away with the paper like that little girl did.

My pen is still running.

At least with this,

I write my own path.