The music is blazing.

It makes my father smile.

We listen to it every day

As we drive another mile.

My sister writes a stanza.

It reminds me of my father.

They say he was a poet.

I’m his youngest daughter.

I write with no form;

Just spit out a verse.

The words are lackluster.

I begin to rehearse.

Much more is taken,

Ripped from our hand.

We are beaten down.

I struggle to stand.

The light never comes.

In the depths of despair,

Words burst through;

A glorious flare.

I am not alone in this cage.

These feelings aren't new.

They need to know I'm here.

I know just what to do.

Pain flows from my fingers.

My words ravaged by hunger.

My eloquence is lacking

But the meaning is thunder.

I reach out a hand;

A comrade in the fight.

Make my words strong;

Strive to do what is right.

Tragedy is all around

Music is a calming sound

Sometimes the words can be found

I pick up a pen and write it all down.

This poem is about: 
My family
Our world


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741