Kept in writing
In solitary confinement; my room
Though one cannot imagine
The frustration I consume
Tactful thoughts and idiotic ideas
Making a mess of my mind
Of loves, laughs, and fears
A world full to write- pen and paper so far behind
Tearing down the stretch of line
Pen in hand together race
Side by side, against the rush of time
Filling the empty space.
A questionable hobby
That deprives me of sleep
Bars me from society
Offers me wild wonders disarranged in a heap
Taking scraps of word fragments
Placed together, their meanings unmask
Sharp silver point leading line of ink to slowly mend
A palate of sensuous words- an endless task
Finally it is finished
Or so I believe
Still, my stress ceases to diminish
As the audience does not conceive
Conceive of the concept
Concerning why I write
Questioning, unwilling to accept
The motives I have, or might
How unstable, how inapproachable
I am, with strange sensation
It's my selfish safeguard, for I am vulnerable
In my source of inspiration.
No! They will not get to me
Those measly mockful some
It is they who cannot see
The wanna-be writer to become
So to those of your who mock me through
And have continued reading
Let me have a chance to prove
My views and my believing
For it is not I realize
To my sweet bliss
Despite the poems you scrutinize
You are still reading this.