I used to stay up late into the deep dark night

I would watch, think, read, or give myself a fright

The darkness under my baggy green eyes gave way

As the exhaustion would hit me from the day

The pile of pain would grow, changing, feeling, tossing emotions to and ‘fro

The day had struggles, heavy and large and many

From watching a mom in pain, red hot but not curable by easy means

To going to school and hiding the sad the angry the confused and mad

It took a toll on a young one so fresh to the world

 

The emotion of the young is so easily boiled as one toils through paths of hardship

The same was for me and myself as we struggled to pull ourselves up

Pull I did and I pulled harshly so strongly my arms almost gave out

That’s when I started writing

 

Writing came easily, it came quickly and proficiently to me

Through writing I could be angry or sad or happy and frillfull

Through writing my mother could be the hero, the fighter, strong and powerful

Through writing I could be happy

And happy I was

 

I still stay up late into the dark deep night

It doesnt matter to me, the frights

Writing takes it away, locks in and encases it, strong and magnificent

The struggles put to paper through pen in pretty prose and poetry

I would take them to the dreary hospital and read them to my hero

I would read them, write them, live them, love them, as if my poetry were my child

This child that showed me love when I needed it

This love that made me strong again to the harshness of the the world

 

Poetry helps free me, excites me, and teaches me

Poetry is all I need it to be