I didn't know that I forgot
To write for me, only me
The world can go **** itself
As I live in poetry.
Maybe these words aren't the best
Maybe they won't heal a heart
But they're mine, as they shall be
That makes them true works of art.
I know they won't go places
I find I like that they're free
As long as they're from my soul-
They're my small mark on history.