This is How.

When the world is dark,

And the tears stream down my face.

When I can’t breathe,

When the weight of the world rests on my shoulders,

That is WHEN I write.

When the colors fade to grey,

When my demons come to play,

When I don’t have a say,

When my hope is drifting away,

That is WHEN I write.

My story and my views

My good and my bad

My heart of hearts

My truth that’s quite sad.

That is WHAT I write.

In my room so dark,

In the forest by my favorite park,

In my sleepless night or my devilish dangerous dreams

Where things aren’t quite what they seem.

That is WHERE I write.

To brighten and broaden my horizons so thin,

To grant myself the strength not to give in,

To transport me to a surreal place,

To wipe the tears from my distraught face,

That is WHY I write.

To face the ridicule (Oh so cruel),

To reach, to preach, to teach,

To show the world I have a say,

To fight the demons who come my way,

That is WHY I write.

In the late of the darkest night,

My painful everlasting fight,

In the safety of my bed

To prove to myself, that it’s all in my head.

That is when.

That is what.

That is where.

That is why.

And this.

Well, this is how.

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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