blue lines

Just us three the pencil, the paper and myself.

Lifting the pencil, leaving led thoughts visible to the eye.

Writing making the thoughts more clear, clearing up the mind from all the stress one holds.

We become one, one with the wind blowing our hair gently as we write.

Thoughts becoming louder no longer do we stress or fear of being trapped.

The feeling of being  relief running through the veins.

Writing poetry makes me, it describes me

The shy girl not no more because I speak the burden held upon us.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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