My Salvation

Some days,

I feel like a needle threaded

In rotting trepidation...

Weaving my uncertainties,

Into the very fabric

That drapes

My chronic pain penitentiary.

But I have found my salvation,

In words painted truthfully,

Through poignant pieces of poetry.

My quill fingertips guide emotion,

From my polluted veins,

That beg to be drained

Of my minds monstrosities.

And when I finish a new piece,

A quick release

Of anxiety

Stabilizes me,

In a tranquil state of sobriety....

Even if only temporarily.

So the cycle repeats,

And I fall more in love,

With the writer

Possessing my body,

Every time I’m feeling weak.

Therapy is a pen in my hand,

Bleeding out insecurities

And replacing each one

With strength, metaphorically.

It’s not just a hobby

For the lost and hopeless.

It’s a way of life,

When you have

The heart

Of a poetess.