Everyday I wake up, hoping for a good day,
But the foul representation of the devil stays,

Observing the things around me, it may seem I have nothing to be depressed about,
Maybe you are right, but I have been depressed for all of my life,
It's the only way I know how to live, so I am on the look out,
Looking for bad things to happen to me sudden and quick, like a swift slice of the knife.

There are many,
ways to express how I feel.
But poetry is beyond any,
thing I have tried, poetry is real.

If poetry was anymore real then monsters would fly out of my pen,
Rainclouds would hover over my papers,
And In this forums there would be so much fantasy it would look like a Mary Poppin's movie.

Poetry is a direct connection from your hand to your soul,
Sometimes your soul could be pure, other times as dark as coal.

My pen might explode from the intensity of my words,
My fingertips are burning from the fury of my emotions,
But my thoughts and hand move freely, like wild birds,
And they both move in unison.

The more I write the faster I realize,
My ability is hidden, like a silk blanket over your eyes,
Blurry with streaks of color barely visible,
That's how my ability is, it's completely invisible.

It's like whenever I write, something takes over me,
An outline of another soul takes over my hand,
And suddenly my hand can move freely,
To paint the picture of an unseen land,
That is invisible to my eyes.

So I write this,
To empty my soul,
Of all the things,
Keeping me old,
And I shall continue to write,
Until I die,
Because poetry is my love,
And it never lies.