Writing, my therapy.

As I set out to write, the ink spills,

Twisting and twirling from the end of my quill,

It forms the shape of the moods in my soul,

And captures the aura of my being as a whole.

As my hand brushes over that piece of paper,

The words flow out and seem to prosper,

And incoherently begin to make a world of sense,

Heaps of feelings, in mere words condense.

When the things around me seem too dull,

And in things around me, no allure will yodel

It slithers and forms some stories untold,

Whereto worlds of fallacies unfold.

And sometimes it spills the musings of my heart,

The things as I see them, when I put them apart,

About my dreams and faith and the verve I wish,

About my darkest mysteries and deepest anguish.

And when I run out of things to say,

In verse it binds my words going astray,

To make it into a song of hope and misery,

And tucks it away to someday sing it back to me.

Confessions

If you could say out loud

Everything that you truly feel

The confessions, to secrecy vowed

What will it be that you reveal?

Would you tell her that you love her?

Or would you go and break her heart?

Is all you want to be is in love together,

Or would you rather have your ways part?

Will you confess it to mom and dad,

That your life is not what it to be?

The dreams, for you they had,

Are not the same dreams that you see.

Would you tell your friends in need,

How much they really mean to you?

To the gap between you, will you pay heed?

And will you try to mend it too?

Above all, the question in thus,

To your own self, what will you tell?

Will it be a mirror you'd see dauntless,

Or a mere shadow of truth, you will sell?

If you could only muster the strength,

To face all that you really see,

If only you'd go that length,

Only then could you unveil your destiny.