It isn't the right word.
But I just can't find the one that will fit
to describe me.

I thought it might be right
until I googled it...
"A shy person"
does not begin to describe me.

I'm not angry at it,
my shyness,
but it frustrates me so much every day.
I sit inside my own head
Screaming!

Screaming at myself,
Screaming out what I just want to say
But
I
Can't!

Screaming at my head to think,
think of something,
anything!
My mind is full of thoughts
but I'm stuck sitting with my best friend
in silence,
my thoughts pounding
against my skull
but not one breaks free.

I don't know the word to say
to sum that up.
Maybe there isn't one
because it is only me trapped in my thoughts
wanting to break out,
wanting to speak out.
Maybe that's why it's so frustrating.

I feel alone inside myself
and I just want to get out.

It's not just the nightmares that haunt.

When you can't separate

dream
from
reality,

that's when it gets frightening.

I hated poetry
when I had to write it for someone else.
It wasn't fun to write
when it was written for someone to read.

But now I write for myself
and I love it.
I love writing poetry.
Those are four words that I never
imagined myself saying.

And now, too,
I write for others just as much as
I write for myself.

It's hard comparing yourself to the world.
It makes you realize how different you are
but it doesn't make you feel special.

It all depends upon what you see, though,
when you look at how you are
strange
compared to people you know,
strange
compared to what you're supposed to be,
strange
compared to those who are, to you, just the stereotype.

It's unfair is what it is,
or what it seems.
Because you see
your sufferings,
sufferings that you get despite the
strange goodness inside of you.
When the stereotype is far worse then you,
far, far worse,
but you feel the punishment
inside and out
for the small, harmless mistakes you've made
and they don't have to put up with any of it.

unfair
Unfair. Unfair! UNFAIR!
It's so UNFAIR!
What's even the point of being good?

But then you look into their eyes
and wonder if they even see your suffering
because they are too blinded by their problems
and you, by yours.

So who has it worse?
Good or bad?
And what about evil?

Is this just life?

back and forth,
slowly,
gently,
but just enough so
I can escape
this world.

I have to look in
just the right spot,
but when I find it
I'm gone
to a lush forest with
only
trees and skies
around me.
No more houses
or cars
or streets
or televisions
or toys.
And
no
more
people.

Just me,
swaying
in my own
little world
from my backyard.