My pen strokes firmly across my page
As I unleash all my pent up rage
And fire sparks from friction thrown
My house is torched as thoughts are grown
Ashes fall around my feet
Staring down the empty street
But as long as my pen is held tight
I'll be okay if I can write
Roses are white, sometimes they're yellow
The colors all range like sounds of a hello
Daisies are plain, and they smell of old socks
And scorpions crawl underneath heavy rocks
This is a poem
These are words
I am writing these words
You are reading these words
How do I know you're reading these words?
You opened this poem.
And I bet you hated it.