I learned to write, 

to fill the gap in me that I'd saved 

for support that never seemed to 

just breeze in 

like it did for most people. 

Walk in the park for them, 

but for myself, a journey. 

You'd find the door labeled 

"MOTIVATION" 

covered in cobwebs and dust 

because it had only been  

acknowledged by some, 

but never opened by anyone 

other than myself. 

So I wrote. 

I wrote to understand both  

my own perspective 

and that of others, so 

they'd never feel as alone. 

I learned to write, 

to comfort those whose 

uncomfortable thoughts  

make them uncomfortable. 

Those whose minds are everything 

but a blank canvas, and 

more of an obscure depiction of 

the unknown territories psychiatrists 

barely seem to touch upon. 

The ones in hope that someone 

is able to read them, 

and understand. 

I like to understand. 

Habit, really.

I like to speak, 

to speak for those whose 

hushed voices are no louder 

than the average house mouse. 

Those who are tired of being tired. 

Those like me. 

I feel a grey hair trying to 

poke through my scalp 

and into the balloon I've filled with 

my hopes and my dreams, 

and I don’t want to let it burst. 

Its like 

we're standing on a cliff, 

The Cliff of Fate, 

where our dreams await us at  

the bottom,  

just a leap away. 

Some of us take that leap, 

but others turn back  

because there's no sign saying 

"POINT OF NO RETURN." 

Nobody is pushing us forward, 

and I understand. 

I write because 

we are all a work in progress 

constantly going through shit, 

ready to be heard– 

and I hear you.