I write poems 

It’s what 

I love

I love poems

It makes

Pain and sorrow

Beautiful

Just like

My anger 

Built up 

Looks like all the 

Hot pink

Fire red

Flowers blooming in the spring

My tears 

Glitter and 

Glisten 

From the sunshine

In the summer light

My screaming 

Is 

Something 

Only certain 

People 

Can hear

Just like a dog whistle 

But 

No one

Can tell

My touch

Is 

Something 

No one 

Will know

But

After that pen can’t write

After the pen 

No longer 

Has a use

That’s when 

All the beauty 

All the prettiness

Is 

Gone

My anger 

Is now 

Just dead flowers 

Like in the winter

My tears are just 

Water droplets

Destroying the makeup on my face

That makes 

Me

Feel pretty

My screams 

Are now just

Words

Words 

That ruin 

My own

Vocal cords

But poetry 

Is what 

I love

It's pretty