Words do not always come out quite right;
I never speak in constant perfection.
At times, even my pen will let me down;
What I thought I could trust disappoints me.
My word may not be so realistic,
But I am satisfied within it.

When I write,
My feelings pour out on blank paper,
Staining the paper like permanent ink,
But never so permanent,
A record, a symbol,
Washing away with the time.
Yes, as deep as ink are my sorrows and joys;
My joys remain while my sorrows do fade.
Either way, I must let them all out,
For paper will hear them;
It can understand,
But it can't understand,
For it is just paper,
Inanimate, unintelligent, dead,
But it's not dead to me,
For my words come alive,
And invite the paper 'long with them.

My world is quite unlike this world of men,
Quite unlike those who lie and who cheat,
Who flourish in what is wrong,
With no God in their minds the majority of the time.
No, my world is peaceful, tranquil, and kind;
It allows me to be myself,
For this world won't accept me.
My world is my outlet,
Where ideas flow,
Where I can release what is troubling me,
Or the glee that I must let free.
It does not matter what anyone thinks,
For my world is not judgmental.
In my world of writing,
Where I can be myself,
Without being mocked or harshly jeered at,
I patiently wait for my day of relief,
But for now this is something I need.
Emotions for me must be somehow expressed,
Yet not aloud--I need not shout,
For I am a writer, mistress of the pen,
And on paper I must let them out.