I needed an escape
Eating was no good
I couldn't build a birdhouse
Because I couldn't work with wood
A pencil lay in front of me
Beckoning and calling
Soon, I would come to see
Writing was my fairy land
A place of just my own
With no internet
Or any fancy cell phone
I sat for hours making magic
Spilling out my strife
Poetry is not hobby
It's a way of life