The plethora of words I can finally release,
a sense of emotions that will never cease.
A pen to a paper, the mind no longer shroud,
being able to express what isn't allowed.
The filigreed of feelings no longer uncouth,
without parting my lips, I can reveal the truth.
My mind travels to other worlds unsought,
a restless imagination that cannot be fought.
Years of thoughts I want to rid, but can't speak,
so solitude with a blank page is what I seek.
The world quiet around me, I can finally write
from the morning dew till the shadowed night.
From love to hate, from life to death,
from the beginning of time to the dying breath.
For eons, people have tried to express their think,
believing rhymes can bring them to their brink.
Assuming words can cure their cursed lives,
saving them from torrid souls and sneering knives.
I take advantage of the blank page before me
and let loose feelings of love, death, friends, and family.
The great thing is that my words are mine;
they don't have to make sense, but can cross the line.
What comes to my mind can travel through my hand
and written in stone, living longer than my land.
My poetry is my escape, my reason for living,
and my release is why I will continue on giving.
