People often say to me “I wish I could write like you.”
Which to some degree I should find humbling
But if only they knew the truth
That every time I touch the pen I'm afraid of what it might do
Behind the guise of self expression it takes possession
All defenses are torn a sunder in pain under its reign
And I am helpless to stop it
Like I would, even if I could anyway
Each tear in me is subject to its tyranny
I watch every sunset fearfully
As the veil of darkness falls
So do the castle walls
It is then that the pen will begin to possess me again
Coercing confessions of sin
However, as much I hate it
I abhor I love it more
I concede that I need it
There is a stink of distinction
Between me and this ink pen
Yet still somewhat synonymous
Whatever I hide under the surface
Determines its purpose
And it always serves it
Even if it hurts when
I bleed through this pen.

She's a little bit of a dreamer,
with holes in her mind.
Her parents push her on the bike,
then she believes she's left behind.
Her poems plead forgiveness,
and unveil her sorrows deep.
Though she tries to change her image,
it's one which she knows she must keep.
But keep on peddling Kelsie.
If you feel like they're gone
you mustn't be brought down and sad.
Keep on peddling Kelsie.
Don't let fake sympathy
make you feel bad.
Peddle like the wind,
blowing dust into the air.
If some people choke,
brush it off like you don't care.
Being someone else,
is not what I ask you to do.
Stop asking for permission,
to finally be you.