On crumpled paper I write,
My heart and soul in visible sight.
Pain and pleasure scribbled in ink;
It might seem pointless but it’s more than you think.
Sometimes poems become my weapons, I use them to vent;
All my fury and fire, anger flows from my pen.
But words are of wisdom, they help me to see;
Many things that are special to me.
Who knows where life leads, but one thing I’m sure,
My pen will be with me as I slowly mature.
People and places fade and decay
Yet the words of my mind will be a poetry of mine everyday.