I like writing poems

But poems don't like me.

Whenever I write

It looks like debri.

The words don’t make sense,

The timing is

Off,

Some roll off the tongue while mine splutter and cough.

I don’t understand?

Why am I like this?

I can’t stop my pencil from making that

Hiss.

Words scratched down on paper

That mean much to me.

I don’t show nobody;

No, nobody sees.

I write to feel happy,

I write to feel free.

And then when I write lots,

I feel more like me.

I’ll never be famous,

Of that I am sure.

There’s no key to happiness

But poems are the door.