I’m no prodigious poet.

In fact I’m quite the odd bird,

I’m always delving deeper

into ideas others find absurd.

 

As my father crossed oceans

I fell onto my knees;

anxiety and depression:

a disease I could not appease.

 

Like a beacon to my vessel,

writing guided me to shore.

From Frost to Longfellow-

my heart yearned for more.

 

Why not, instead,

make the pen bleed for me?

I have the power to choose pen over knife,

and that, my friend, is the key.

 

Writing out what I felt during my lowest lows.

Writing truths for my erratic mind to read.

That’s called grounding, my dear.

Something which every soul needs.

 

It’s one thing to think something over and over again,

 in attempts to calm yourself down as your salted-tears glisten;

even muttering to yourself in a sputtering sob,

 but when black ink screams truth and reality back into you, you listen.

 

You breathe,

and you continue to write.

Turning chaos into something beautiful.

I promise, it’ll be alright.