~The Poem~

There is a room, so dark and so cold, In the room there is a poem, a poem of
thoughts and questions. The poem is smeared and torn, battered and worn,
sitting on my desk where the light never reaches. A dark poem of the
thoughts and the questions of a torn boy, in a dark place of his mind. It
tells his thoughts and ideas, of his fears and his woes. The poem is sitting
on the desk collecting dust. It has no title no one author, no beginning and
no end. It’s words paint a picture, they paint a meaning to life. It’s an
answer to questions he hasn't yet asked. The poem sees his thoughts, and
hears them; it organizes his emotions and finds words for them. It never see
the light of day, neither dose the desk and it never will. They both sit
collecting dust in the back room of his mind, never seeing the light of day.

 
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