My words don't always have a meaning behind them.
But the words I project are my heart's solemn anthem.

My poetry is imperfect; a mess of paint spilled on a canvas.
Through the colors though, I was able to see a purpose.
Putting my thoughts into a stanza keeps me sane.
Putting my thoughts onto paper is the rainbow after the rain.

My ideas range from puppies to the way I was left alone.
From the time my first dog died in my lap to the thought of college loans.
You see, I'm not the slightest bit okay;
However, my internal struggles will lose to my positivity day after day.

I can't tell you my origins in writing.
I can't tell you why it is I can't ever control my thinking.
My thought process is so god-awfully in disrepair,
And maybe all it needs is a breath of fresh air.

I miss my first dog Boy.
I hate the thought of student loans drowning me in debt and having to deploy.
I hate that I can't put an intermission in my concert of agony.
I miss the many days of my boyhood when I didn't have to worry.

I realized my flawed poetry in the many times I reread my past works.
However, don't you dare tell me they aren't of any worth.