I got to that level of skill before,

But still, I know I can be so much more,

Than just a paper and pen,

All that I have left,

After depression turns life to regret.

Losing my passions,

In tall-tale fashion,

Of something coming in my way,

Keeping me from seeing the light of day,

Who knows how much longer I’ll stay.

I’ve got a paper and pen,

And all that they’re for,

But still, I know I can be so much more,

Like a musician, designer, painter,

Anything that I can put my mind to.

If only my mind wasn’t too tortured to use.

I’ve got the words from my poems,

Writing’s not a chore,

But still, I know I can be so much more.

Than just a paper and pen,

For an emotional outlet that kept –

It kept from doing more harm to myself.

Maybe one day, these words will be on a bookshelf,

Then I’ll show some gratitude to my unforgiving self.