At thirteen, I was

expressive in my depressive thoughts.

Pen and paper allow my words to take permance

where in my mind they remainded tangled knots

At thirteen, I discoverved

the meaning of being one self.

Pages and notebooks filled with black ink

the ability to dictate which feelings fit on the shelf.

At thirteen, I grew

with every line it became sublime.

It was that year that  poetry had saved my soul

filling my heart with love and internal rhyme.