Pointed pencil,
Talking,
Black pen,
Talking,
One sheet of freshed lined paper.

My brain is a jumbled up mess of growing up,
Figuring out blueprints and survival skills to stay alive.

Taking persistent footsteps so I don't step on a personal bomb to blow up a building I built myself in sparkly bold letters I call my future.

Dull pencil,
Whispers,
Almost empty pen,
Whispers,
One sheet on crumpled paper.

Turning my thoughts into words is terrifying, Giving someone the opportunity to judge you like you were put in this world to be nothing.
I am something.

Short walks,
Quick talks,
These are the things no one wants but I've had both.
I've got icy cold wind in my wings but im floating above it all.

Broken pencil,
Silence,
Empty pen,
Silence,
Now a pile of crumpled paper.
My thinking pattern is out of wack,
I don't know what I'm going to do with my life and it's only just begun.

It's a mad world they say,
And I'm beginning to believe it.