My poetry hides

In the unsuspecting death

Of my sanity

Deep within my heart

Concealed secrets forbid me

From my peace of mind.

Desperate am I

To discover the meaning

Of my constant pain

Paper and Pencils

Are all who listen to me;

Despite my thin pleas.

Prose and six-word stories

I never thought I possessed

Flow from my shaking hands

As my love, my passion

Inevitably rescues me

From myself.