Writing is the calm after the storm 

The rant after the fight 

The memories after the moment 

The shoulder that I cry on 

It's an escape from reality 

A utopia with lead, ink, erasers and paper

Where grammar doesn't matter 

And I can do, feel, say, or scream whatever 

Where all or my disorganized thoughts go to get sorted 

And the filter disappears 

And I roll up my sleeves and let my thoughts explode on the page