Poetry For Everyday People
The Road Out
I remember I was
sixteen when I packed
up, I was on the floor
in our house trying to
do homework instead I
started writing about
how I felt, I filled
the notebook, hours of
writing,
and that's when I packed
it all up, all my emotions
all my thoughts, my secrets,
my pain, my humanity and what
I've seen in my short sixteen
years,
I packed it all up and moved
within these words, these pages,
I can't go anywhere without a notebook,
without writing on a napkin, I
found my life in here, these words saved
me as a guitar saves, a paint brush, a
purpose of some sorts,
until you find your road, your place,
until you break free of peoples opinions,
judgments, the invisible hold of explaining
yourself, you're lost, confused, and empty.
I ran a way at sixteen
and I have never gone back.
sixteen when I packed
up, I was on the floor
in our house trying to
do homework instead I
started writing about
how I felt, I filled
the notebook, hours of
writing,
and that's when I packed
it all up, all my emotions
all my thoughts, my secrets,
my pain, my humanity and what
I've seen in my short sixteen
years,
I packed it all up and moved
within these words, these pages,
I can't go anywhere without a notebook,
without writing on a napkin, I
found my life in here, these words saved
me as a guitar saves, a paint brush, a
purpose of some sorts,
until you find your road, your place,
until you break free of peoples opinions,
judgments, the invisible hold of explaining
yourself, you're lost, confused, and empty.
I ran a way at sixteen
and I have never gone back.
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The Road Out
The Road Out
