• All I have is filled notebooks.
    Scribbled out pages.
    Written poems,
    And unspoken rages.

    I could write it all.
    It would come out true.
    I could let the pencil fly.
    But, somehow, my voice refuses to speak to you.

    I fake a smile.
    I’ll write the story out at eve.
    When you ask me to tell the truth,
    I lie and say I am.
    And then quickly leave.

    My anger bursts in manuscript.
    My tears streak the paper.
    I wonder why,
    When I’m writing I feel so much safer.

    I had it all planned out.
    I knew what to say.
    But when it came the time…
    Well, let’s just say…
    Tell you, I never may.

    So, for now, I’ll let the lead skim across the page.
    I’ll continue to show the real me in my notepad.
    I won’t let you ever know,
    What it knows.
    That I’m really truly sad.