March 4, 2021
I know my writing is not very polished,
My poetry less than flawless,
But words seem to pour out of the side of my head.
I can’t help but to keep writing,
Perhaps it is my way of fighting,
My overwhelming sense of dread.
My volume has become quite prodigious,
Writing each night is almost religious,
Working to keep anxiety at bay.
I write to to quash away my fears,
To laugh and sigh and shed a tear,
And it is not always about what I have to say.
I know this is not literature,
But perhaps it is important to consider,
That writing isn’t always meant to become art.
Because even if you don’t understand,
Please don’t dismiss me out of hand,
For I need someone to read my heart.