I hold a box of tissues.
I try to clean up a mind filled with issues.
A heart filled with wounds.
Rooms filled with abuse that intrudes.
To tell you the truth, they can’t be removed.
Then I lose myself.
But instead of sitting and
crying with tissues in my hands.
I choose to write my issues through
poems filled with words and rhymes
like Dr. Seuss to tell the truth from a wounded soul.
These tissues will not be enough to solve my issues.