The world is bitter.

No… perhaps I am bitter,

Despair and darkness have become my friends.

But is that such a bad thing?

 

It’s a miracle I haven’t gone insane.

I know I drive myself to this point,

But I can’t help my irrational fears,

Nor my hatred of seemingly nothing.

 

I’m forced to latch on to the one thing:

My innate desire to write.

It’s the only thing that keeps me humanized,

The only thing that fights my inner demons.

 

I don’t write for others or for the world.

Rather, I write for myself.

I write because if I didn’t,

I would’ve been pushed over the edge long ago.

 

When I see others praise my writing,

I feel my demons shrink away bit by bit.

And suddenly, I thirst for more writing,

Like some kind of twisted drug addiction.

 

No, I don’t write for others or for the world.

I write to fight for my life.

I may be imperfect and otherwise untalented,

But, above all else, most importantly:

 

I write.