Why do we write?

For some it’s to continue a fight.

For some it’s because they can’t go to bed at night.

For some it’s a kind of majestic light.

For some it’s a way out when nothing feels right.

 

When I was a kid I barely liked to write a sentence.

Now I take each line as a chance of repentance.

There’s this freedom in all these words.

They help me fly off like a flock of birds.

 

You see when you spend your life trapped in a room.

Thoughts began to form and the atmosphere begins to gloom.

You lie on your coffin of a bed.

You slowly start resemble that of something that were dead.

You stop going outside.

You begin to hide.

 

It’d take a story to tell you why.

But really one word can and that’s not a lie.

Pain.

Something that run far beyond a vein.

Something that began to form like a stain.

It slowly drove me insane.

It put me constantly in memory lane.

 

When you live life in chains you look for a way out.

You begin to realize you spent years with unreasonable doubt.

You begin to speak aloud with small voice yet so proud.

You begin to chip the wall away.

In that room you were never meant to stay.

You begin to believe in a better day.

You begin to see things in a different way.

 

The door was never locked.

I just never had the courage so I never knocked.