Not So Simple

Growing up I have always been told to do what makes me happy,
So when everyone asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up,
I told them I wanted to be a writer
I wanted to write books and novels 
My dream was to be published.
But do you wanna know what they told me?
You can only be a writer if you have been through pain
All of the bestselling authors are experts of this feeling
They grow up in broken homes.
They are bullied,
beaten,
abused in some way shape or form.
And on the outside I just agreed with them,
but on the inside,
on the inside I WAS ON FIRE
I thought "HOW DO YOU KNOW THAT I'VE NEVER EXPERIENCED PAIN?"
"YOU DON'T KNOW THE LIFE I HIDE"
"YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT I HAVE BEEN THROUGH!"
No my struggles aren't the worst in the world,
but they are the demons with the sharp claws that live in my past,
they are the worst I have ever experienced,
and they just gnash and claw at my insides,
they demand to escape through my eyes in the form of tears,
but even if they do escape in the dead of night
while I'm all alone,
they come back. 
It's like my skin just soaks them right back up inside 
and they torture me once again
until I let them slip out once more.
These monsters are the daunting laughs 
that make my brain swell,
they make me feel trapped
like I'm stuck in a cage meant for a bird.
And no these pains,
these monsters,
these creatures I trap inside aren't as bad as some others,
but they are mine to deal with 
and they push, 
and push, 
and push,
waiting for me to fall...
but I can't 
I can't break down,
so I smile as I try to hide the broken-ness of my eyes
and maybe I won't become a writer,
but don't tell me that I CAN'T EVER aspire to one.
Because my life is not as simple as it looks...

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