For long, I've had a pen
And at the beginning of that time:
I used to write fantasy,
With set syllable and rhyme.

I gave it to the public,
And they gave it back to me.
Told me it was bland,
Somehow, I could agree.

And then I changed it to
First person—

Wrote about my troubles
Gave up on punctuation
And that ******* filter.

To write about my fight with needles,
A cyclic session of depression and regression,
Is release.

I am,
the butcher who chopped apart her soul
Drained blood into words.
Ground the bones into a bag and
Fed it to the birds

I won't dwell upon the rhyme scheme
Chime whenever the hell I want.

I hid my words in shadows
Did not care for
The world's gaze

And suddenly I found myself—
Showered with honest praise.