The act of writing gives me solace and understanding as my thoughts and emotions flow freely onto the page. However, there is a reluctance to share these innermost feelings with others, stemming from a fear of vulnerability and judgment.

No one hears me, but my paper knows me,

I put pen to paper, and words flow out like a river to a sea.

It’s my fault that no one can know,

Because that’s the one thing about me I don’t show.

When I do, and someone stumbles upon it,

I’m scared, and I cannot sit.

I get up, and I leave,

I leave the golden showers of leaves heaped upon the green grass,

And I sit down with my good friends,

I will introduce you to them, since you actually know them,

This is Pen, the connection between my feelings and I,

And this is Paper, the only record of who I am.

My words mean nothing if they don’t come from Pen and Paper,

But one day I will introduce a new friend to them,

A glorious friend they will know!

My future friend is Speaking,

I’m not very comfortable with Speaking, no,

I work with her, but my words cannot mean anything coming from her.

No, I’m not friends with her yet,

But I will be,

For now though, I’ll stick to my paper therapy.