A/N: This didn't originate as a poem, but there wasn't really a way to structure it in prose so I just formatted it as a poem instead. (You know, for someone who hates poetry, I sure have written quite a bit of poetry)

Warning: mentions self-harm. It's just a line, but self-harm is serious and I did not want to just toss it out lightly.


Voice

.

There are thoughts in my brain.

There are words, written words in my own penmanship, on my paper.

There is movement, my body is the one causing it, and it is dance.

There is paint on a canvas, owned by me, and it is a picture I made myself.

There is a garment, fabric sewn together on a form, that I both sketched and produced.

There is a mechanism, made of metal and plastic, that I forged.

There is a song, written and played along with a piano, that comes from my throat and started from my musical fingers.

There are marks on my body, angry red hurtful marks, that I created.

There are words, spoken words coming from my lips and thought out in my brain, that I tell you.

I have a voice.

Listen to it.

Hear me.


Hope you enjoyed.