They tell me not ever to write
for other people to come and see.

To scribble my words on paper
until my sorrow ends in glee

So I collect my scattered thoughts
and pour out the void inside me

I write till I'm left with nothing
I pour with love and form a sea

I craft them into beautiful stories
and they tell me to set them free

I almost do follow the suggestion
But I feel my heart struggle to agree

So I hang them like dried out flowers
and wait for people to come and see

Like an artist, I stand beside my works
Waiting. Day one. Day two. Day three.

Paitently, I wait for them to stop by
to hear me sing my impatient plea

I shout in dejection and fury all day
But then, with heart, I finally disagree

So I go out, burn my words to cinders
Ashes of my angst, I set them free.

I watch them as they soar across the sky.
I don't smile.