Every time I write it is as if I am splattering a little bit of myself across the sky

for the world to see. I’d say, “Look! That’s what I AM.”

I write selfishly, scribbling the world as I see fit in order to create my own perfect reality.

I live within my written words, sheltering my soul with hyperboles and metaphors.

I hold the pen to the paper; the ink spills my guts.

I must write, because only then can I truly exist...I AM the poem.

What I write, they’re not just words; they’re the outlet to an alternate universe.

 They’re not only an escape but a manipulative tool. A weapon if you will.

With it I can sever the chains that enslave me to cruel realities.

As long as I possess this weapon I am not heart disease patient. I AM a warrior.