I seek myself in this pen, and paper. I visualize my life on this sheet. Sometimes, I just lay in my bed and look up at the ceiling. Sometimes my heart races, and mind wonder for a title to “my life”. Sometimes it gets too boring saying life. Why couldn’t I just say, “the storm” or “my light” or “my rain”. Why “my life”? it has a lot of meaning, yes I do agree, but to take up my time my poetry I do read

Short or long I love writing my poetry, from cursive to chicken scratch, but now I’m in my bed trying to relax. Life doesn’t get any better. I’m freezing in this cold world with no sweater.

I love writing my poetry. Can you feel it a little bit? Can you feel yourself deep, caught up in a day dream? Seeking knowledge from your ceiling while God mellow words creep into your ears, can you feel it? The anger around, arouse your soul.

But yet I love writing my poetry. My poems are my home, my escape, my way of peace, sometimes I just want to sleep.

I love writing my
Poetry.
It's just apart of me.

-Marci H.