Alone on a desert, no way to escape.
Trapped on an island, are you taking the bait?
Decide what to take, your choices are few,
So make the right selection, it’s all up to you.
Never thought I'd do this. Me? Write poetry?
It was truly an accident, I never did it knowingly.
The truth is it's my words I can't live without,
I've hidden this talent because in my ability, I doubt.
But will anyone read the words I wrote?
The memories I keep and the thoughts I never spoke?
A cynic I know all my scripts have been nothings.
They didn't accept me into university or stop any sufferings.
Some write looking for fame or perhaps to hide pain,
Blake, Byron, and Shelley: Their level of eloquence I’ll never attain.
I'm not special. I'm just an eighteen year old girl,
Who's growing up, trying to understand the world.
I couldn't imagine a life where I didn't write these words;
They're my understandings, a gift, and sometimes absurd.
I don't claim to be intelligent, whimsical, or articulate,
But if I didn't write, in my mental sky all these words would sit.
You've asked and I've answered without delay,
It's words in my life from which I could never abstain.