I've always loved writing, putting pen down to paper,

When high school hit it became second nature.

In an instant it went from a little to a lot

Like an addiction, but unlike my peers it wasn't pot.

Instead I found a tiny black book

And opened it up to take a small look.

What lay before me was endless pages

Without another thought I began to fill it with rages:

Why that boy had been so mean

And for nights on end I cried and screamed

For that love I'd lost with my best friend,

Guess he's just another boy now- who knew that would end.

I wrote about the dangers that lurked in the world

And the fears that made me want to stay in my bed all curled.

Why did men call to us on the streets,

Was it a game to them? Are we just meat?

And why were people all over being shot

Because their skin color was different than the cop.

Why was a head scarf used as a sign of terror

When it really represents five times a day prayer.

I wrote about what hurt, clearly and hard

Like Hemingway suggested, using what leaves me scarred.

But a miraculous thing happened, it stopped hurting so much

The more transparent my writing, the stronger the touch.

I was using the ugly, the horrid, distasteful

To make something aesthetic, touching and graceful.

The heavy emotion behind the words could stay

But it would lift the weight in my heart high away.

In some odd way I felt I was a larger part

Of what, I didn't know, but at least it was a start.

And that's why it was poetry that I chose to start writing,

It was my way to conquer problems and shed some lighting

On the deepest dilemmas that lay at the root

Of all causes in which I'd no longer stay mute.