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.