The tip of my pencil is skimming the page,
A word is poured out; the key to my cage,
I've waited so long to tell someone my story,
I write not for fame, nor for money; me only.
If I did not release my soul screaming,
I'd stay locked up forever, wishing and dreaming.
My soul'd quickly darken
For help would I harken
The plot it would thicken
My heartbeat would quicken,
Until all I had dreamed up
Found an outlet somewhere,
Through my combustion
Ideas everywhere
