I write for all the things I should have said and did not,

To scorn you for all the hurt you caused me,

And for solace, comfort, and peace.

I write in rhythm and rhyme because of your crime,

Not mine.

I write poems and stories of your demise,

For all of the times you ignored my tear stained eyes.

Thus follows a symphony of analogy and simile.

I’m now free from your cuffs of rage and anti-amenity.

You say I can’t do this or go far in life,

I write because I know I can.

And I do.

Not to prove to you that I can or I am,

But for me.

The fact that I prove you wrong along the way,

Is just a perk.