You told me to look inside myself.

And find the answer to your riddle.

To reach into the deepest caverns,

Of a heart that’s damn near shriveled.

You want to know about my life,

To know my woes and passions?

Well prepare yourself, ‘cus here I go.

I’ll tell you in poetic fashion:

Growing up, times were hard.

And I didn’t have many friends.

Vacations were rare.

Mom and dad always fought,

With no hope of making amends.

I suppose more money would’ve helped

Or maybe made things worse.

I remember the night Nick was punished,

For stealing from mother’s coin purse.

But money wasn’t the only problem

That haunted me day-to-day.

My problem was much more abstract.

A deep sense of loneliness lived inside me.

And at any moment, it would attack!

No one to play with during recess.

No one to sit with at lunch.

I had no one to talk to,

In a house full of people,

Who always spoke with their nose in a scrunch.

So how did I survive the isolation?

Must I really state the obvious?

POETRY was my outlet,

WRITING gave me strength,

Words poured out of me, but no audience. 

But that didn’t matter.

At least, not to me.

Because my dorky little poems,

Gave me blissful release.

I didn't need anyone to listen, 

Or to read what I wrote. 

I needed no validation. 

And had no reason to gloat. 

"What does poetry mean to me?"

Well it’s more than just rhyming.

It’s a way for me to cope.

When there’s no silver lining.

I could express my frustration.

Leave my heart on the page.

Exorcize all my demons,

Free this beast from its cage!

These poems that I create,

Are like a torch in the night.

When I find myself in darkness,

I know there’ll always be a light.