Words are jumbled and confusing,

Much like a jigsaw puzzle,

Too many meanings for too

many things,

It causes my brain to befuddle!

Grammar is such a headache, all

these “do’s” and “don’t’s,”

Rhyming including, because

some words will work, and others

won’t.

Ask why I still write, and I will act

as though I don’t posses a reply,

But, really, I do, and it, I choose

to hide,

But I, sometimes, inquire of myself

the same thing,

“Why write your heart out, in story

or in poem, when it makes your

head ring?”

Because it is an escape that is too

easy to grab,

These stories are yours, and

control, you have,

It is my way of expressing myself

without directly pointing to me,

My many stories, to put it simply,

are my safe place, they set

me free,

Because, yes there is grammar,

and a pain it can be,

But once I look over my creation,

I truly see me,

I see every struggle and every

little thing I cherish all in one,

Although blind, it may be to

some.

Truth is, I don’t write for others

to search for their praise,

I write for myself because with

every story, carries a new day,

A new fantasy of your own

liking,

Something no one can take

from you, because it is

_your_ writing.

So with every irritation of

the confusions of this puzzle,

Once it is finished, much like

a puzzle, when I finish, I no

longer see rubble,

I see cherry blossom trees,

And little farries with little

wings.

I see dragons with tempers,

And magical folks that sing.

I see grumpy trolls with their

grim faces and even grimmer

perspectives,

Broken-hearted princes, who

no longer know what love is.

With every mountain stretching

across a made-up land,

Mostly I see myself, and the

many things one can make

with many little strokes of

a hand.

So whereas past tenses and

“first person” to “third

person” can get confusing,

Once finished, the fantasy

is yours, forever, down to

the pixies and ponies, to

every creeping thing.