Young Writers Society

Hello out there, this is part of a small poetry anthology I'm working on for my creative writing class' final project. Criticism and suggestions would be greatly appreciated, because then maybe I could boost up my mark. Here's the rough draft:

Music isn't
just an escape,
a pass time,
background noise.

Its a second
heart beat,
a vine curling
around my
veins,

its ink polluting
my blood;
an addictive
drug.

Headphones,
a permanent
fixture on my head.

Not that I'm
ignoring my
environment,
or shutting you
out.

I'm not
an angry youth,
plotting pain,
planning death.

This habitat
doesn't always
feel like home,
but familiar sounds

make it
easier to
cope with the
unknown.