The way that I write is the way that I feel,
that’s why it changes and that’s how it’s real.

Sometimes when I feel like there’s no one around,
like no one would hear me if I made a sound;
that’s when I write like a loved one just died,
that’s when I write like a child just cried,
that’s when I write like a gamblers debt-
consumed by a need that’s not satisfied yet,
that’s when I write like a warm, quiet rain-
wishing for someone to help numb the pain.

Then sometimes I feel like the whole world is mine,
like I don’t fear the fall, so I dance on the line;
that’s when I write like a big ocean wave-
surfing through life for the mavericks I crave,
that’s when I write like a dive in the lake-
like the world is reminding us, she is awake,
that’s when I write like those bright summer days-
a beautiful sunset with light orange rays.

And then there are nights when I feel so afraid,
afraid of the price that I still haven’t paid;
that’s when I write with a quivering hand,
shaking with torment too awful to stand,
with a fear of commitment, a fear of the truth,
a fear of the man who sits at the same booth,
that’s when I write but I choose not to share,
afraid that the people will fear what’s in there.

And then there are days when I write with my heart,
my brush wet with ambition, my words become art,
I write like my body just cannot sit still,
like “Why am I sitting with life to fulfill?”,
like a power inside me just needs to get out,
like a loud inner voice that is ready to shout;
that’s when I write to inspire mankind,
to show other people all that they can find,
that’s when I write like my name is a call,
a cry to be caught when they’ve taken a fall.

But some days I feel like the world has to pay,
for the pain people cause with the words that they say;
that’s when I write while I’m gritting my teeth,
freeing the demon I’ve hidden beneath,
that’s when I write like a whole different man,
tortured by hatred I never outran,
that’s when I write like my very first time,
untampered emotion released in its prime,
that’s when I write with a bruised, bleeding fist,
describing my problems like some kind of list.

And then comes the days like a gift from above,
when I write my soul, and the power of love;
and those days I write like the demon is gone,
like the darkness has faded to welcome the dawn,
those days I write like there’s not enough time-
to compress all my feelings and put them to rhyme,
those days I write like the battle is won-
like peace had been found and the war is now done,
like the touch of a loved one can rid you of breath-
and that pure emotion can’t end after death,
like the youth of a child is worth more than gold,
and the power of a kiss can’t be hidden or sold.

I write how I feel and I feel how I write,
in this world full of darkness my writings are a light.
My rhymes are my bloodline, these words are my drive,
I bleed them on paper to know I’m alive.
My mind’s on display- go ahead, take a look;
It shows my emotion, it lights every nook.
Each word is far greater than graphite or ink,
each letter reveals different ways that I think.
Each poem I make is a small paper mirror,
with each word I write, my reflection grows clearer.

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