My writing hides on the cross around my neck,

Burning with absolute desire to leap forth,

And show the world who I am.

Not their title.

My writing consists of anger.

Anger at those who judge me,

Those who inhibit my true feelings,

And maybe at those who love me.

My writing consists of love.

Love for true things,

For things unaffected by human ignorance,

And things that are pure.

My writing consists of honesty.

Honesty that I can't speak to myself,

That I can only express through paper,

And actually have someone listen.

My writing is so wrapped up,

So bound by wires of fear,

Cords of pride,

And human influence.

My writing hides in the frustration, the confusion

At the people I am afraid to say I hate,

But more afraid to say,

I love them.

My writing can be different paths

For ones mind to take,

Just like the cross can mean death and despair for some,

Yet hope and new life for others.

I know my writing hides.

I don't know how to find the courage to express it to capture the forthright and utmost meaning.