All the poems you wrote,
kept safe in a plastic crate.
A jealous lover of your words
finds your crate, and in
destroys your handwriting.
A series of questions follow;
there are no
clear answers, yet you know.
All it takes is one line crossed,
to leave with almost nothing.
A hurt unknown to your heart,
you struggle without a home.
All you must do is stop writing;
a jealous lover
and a life with plenty of money.
An understanding of your worth;
you walk away
and let your words and life flow.
A published writer of many poems;
letting grief go,
and walking without looking back.
All your words are you,
A part of who you are,
A cry of rebellion in a world of conformity;
You need not apologise for the words you write.