Poetry,
Such a simple word.
Though it carries such meaning
For a broken little girl
Such as myself.

Pathetic,
Im sure is how I seem.
For the nights I cried alone
With red angry liquid
Dripping from my arms.

Relieved,
Is what I began to feel.
When I found poetry spilling
From the bruised pores
Of my twisted mind.

Alone,
I no longer felt.
For as long as I had a pen and paper,
I was always safe and free
I no longer screamed.

Words,
Became my saving grace.
As they formed in the wet ink
I put onto my paper
I could write forever.

Dark,
Is how my poetry is seen.
People always ask me if I am alright
I tell them it should be obvious
That I am.

Paper,
That is what I take my anger out on.
I no longer hate myself
Because poetry taught me
To always write it out.


-ARI