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.

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