The pen screams sounds,
that set the mood.
The hand goes down,
and starts to move.
My mind begins to empty out,
the words it feels the soul must shout.
The readers eyes begin to see,
the feelings held inside of me.
Doctors cost,
the pen was free.
And meets my psychiatric need.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I like this piece. It sounds like a free pen did more good to get those feelings out in the open than the shrink. Keep on writing, I like your style ^_^