"Writing?" you might ask.
"What's it about?"
Everything
I wanna say
Nothing
I wanna say
Misunderstanding
Like the look you give me while I try to explain the poems that spill from my lips
Before I've even got a grip
On what it is
I'm saying.

And no, I don't want you to read what I've got so far
When my head is busy dancing circles around my pen.

I wanna write.

It is my one selfish need I will never give up.
It is my freedom of speech that you will never corrupt
With your requests for ballads
As you **** inspiration from me like it's chocolate syrup
And you can't get enough of those
Semi sweet words.

But poetry
Is not fuel.

It's oxygen.

And you are ******* at the air from my lips as I recite these
So-called rants. These
"Depressing chants" of First World problems.

Well, welcome to my life,
Where First World problems rain down on my adolscence.

Because, my hands?
May never have to wipe blood from my loved ones.
But, my cheeks
still know the hot sting of tears.

We've all got First World problems
Hidden down dark corridors.
Or, sitting as eye-sores on street corners.

But poetry is a metamorphosis.
Where we lock away our ugly.

Its purpose?
To emerge from our throats like butterflies.

And with our pain set fluttering free,
There is nothing left stopping us from helping those far or near
In need.

And the world will make poets of them yet.
Whether they know it or not.

Whether our breath ever shutters in the same way or not is not important.

I surround myself
With artists of word who can sometimes tell me
What I want to say in ways more beautiful than my tongue could ever shape but

I
Will never
Stop
Writing.

Never stop
Fighting
For what I believe in

So,
Don't read.
Just listen.
And I will write you a duet.

I know that I can make a poet of you yet.