When I was younger,

I used to try

to jump off of tables

to make myself fly.

But when my bones were all broken

(and my dreams were as well)

I came to realize

why I always fell:

you can try all you want

to have these wonderful things,

but God has a reason

for not giving us wings.

And that is why I write.

 

When I was little

and my heart was still whole,

I met a boy

who completed my soul.

The puzzle was done,

all its pieces in place,

when all of a sudden

the boy left with no trace

of why he had gone

or where he was going.

And I can't help but wonder

if he left me knowing

that he is why I write.

 

When I got older,

I started to see

a dark, empty stranger

was following me.

I asked who he was

and he told me to guess.

My newfound friend

was my loneliness.

I tried to escape him

any way that I could--

my family, my friends--

but beside me he stood,

so now all I can do is write.