Poetry

Many of the things I do, I don’t understand.

It’s almost like a lover who watches as they cut the life out of their body. 

Things have s way of sneaking up on me, and I dont know who to turn to.

Running to a parent seems like a good thing,  Until I remember that in telling them,  I would break their hearts.

So, through the years, I’ve kept it all inside,  only letting paper know who I really am. 

Sometimes, I wonder what it would say to me, the paper,  if it could talk.

Would it tell me that how utterly potheic I am?  How much of a waste of life?

Would it tell me to stop writing about sucide?  Just go do it?

But, poetry is my one outlet.  In my poems I can dream, and no one can tell me no.

Poetry is my life, yes,  It saved me many times. 

Now I find my words all disappering.  A soul gone to rest.

Please come back to me.  I need you. 

…I… need… you…

~ Witch