Writing

I'm an introvert.

I hate when people tell me I need to come out of my shell.

Because you know what?

I like my shell.

It's not a problem, it's protection.

Like a turtle, I carry armor with me always.

I've been buried for so long. 

By dead leaves, snow, and the weight of winter's thick, cold air. 

All of it holding me down. 

For months I stayed stagnant. 

Unable to move. 

You wrote a poem about me

It wasn’t very good

You said I made you a tortured poet

Then laughed

And it’s all a blur-

Isn’t it

(I don't mean any offense towards anyone, I swear)

Snow is melting out on the yard

Green grass shows itself to tired eyes

The winter was so long and hard

'Till your warm green powers started to pry.

It isn't fair

The school air

Hurts my arms

Hurts my head

Hurts my body

Hurts my face

Hurts my brain.

School air

Isn't fair.