A childish girl,

Blessed with a broken pen,

Caged within, isolated in a den. 

Nimble fingers reach out. 

"Help me." 

I'm a lonely girl,

throbbed and dirtied by thousand words.

Scraped my knee, no help coming. 

I see, I live alone in this world. 

But I held the pen,

This broken and chipped pen. 

I write, no matter how ludicrous.

No matter how pathetic. 

I must spill this out. 

I must write and sing. 

Because no longer would the cage isolate me,

if the pen morphed with the paper,

if I soon found peace in this writing. 

I would be free.

I AM FREE. 

* * *
What I make, I can't say that I've given it my all. In my eyes, it's mediocre work.  It's unpleasant to be hindered and rejected at times but I try again and again. I don't do my best but I try. That's what matters. And I think, no matter how you belittle yourself, it's only up to you to decide. People shouldn't be shackled permanently in chains; we should break free.