When time passes;

When I’m afraid I’ve done nothing.

When the years end

And the friendships go,

 

There is a pen.

 

When she says again

“You’ve done it wrong.”

And your heart was in it

And she didn’t want that,

 

There is paper.

 

When people are happy,

And my brain says I can’t be.

When I spend hours

In therapy,

 

There is inspiration.

 

When my novel is not.

When my ideas appear,

And my discipline is gone.

When I can’t extend,

 

There is poetry.

 

When my fiction isn’t finished,

my gpa is small,

and my heart feels unaccomplished.

When she yells at me,

makes me feel like an outsider,

and I wish of being a failed pregnancy.

When anger is what I have,

When tears can’t express,

and yelling can’t be done.

 

There I am.

 

Writing.

Because poetry is a life,

outside of time,

outside of pain,

outside of disappointment.

 

Because my stuttering doesn’t matter.

Because my family roots don’t count.

Because my grades won’t make me happy.

 

Because there is poetry,

there is a reason for me

 

to live.