Where I Write
I sit at my desk, and ponder the thought,
That writing will help me achieve the happiness that I sought.
Pencil shavings and pieces of paper, scattered across the floor,
Old books and encyclopedias stuffed in the top drawer.
It's a mess, I know, but it's where I write,
To amend the hopes they scattered, when their hearts were shut up tight.
So I'll finish the thoughts I started, with my pencil, pen, and paper,
As my words bring me security, and I feel a little safer.
When I'm in my cage of anomalies, I feel that I could break free,
Of my sadness and my fear, and that is good enough for me.