An escape from reality.

My peers look at me.

They expect to see something that I simply am not.

They want to see a good girl.

Who has it all going on.

Grades.

Body.

A strive for excellence.

Yet, they want more. They NEED more.

They not only want good, but rebellion and filth.

They want to see not only good grades, but not giving a fuck if I get a C in Calculus.

They want to see my body as a sanctuary, but eagerly wait for me to give it up for free.

They want to see me strive for success, but with an attitude of “fuck it”.

 

I try to be everything they want,

To be perfection with flaws.

However, I know it is impossible, but I still try.

I still try-

Let me modify that statement:

I did try.

 

I tried so hard that -

That I became someone I wasn’t.

Hell, I got grounded for 2 years because of who I became.

But, then something snapped me out of my haze of delusion.  

 

I found writing.

Poems, novels, short stories, (oh my).

I found writing.

Writing set my heart free,

My pen was eager to record the exploration that was my mind.

It was an outlet, it is a sanctuary.

 

With notebooks and loose paper and blank torn pages from a coffee stained book

These notebooks and loose paper and torn blank pages are filled with memories

Memories of pain, happiness, anger and emptiness.

Memories that I will cradle until the end of time.

The pages filled to their maximum capacity with blue, black, even pink ink.

Pencil, crayons, markers and sharpies.

Lines and lines and lines and lines.

For what?

Why do I write?

 

I write because of a simple task.

An outlet, of sorts.

An always forgiving, secret-holding case that will earn me an A in English

And an A in mental stability.

 

I liked writing as a kid,

it was a past time.

Before Phones and Netflix

And Sex and Drugs,

To go to another world and stay for an hour or two.

However, as I got older that world went away,

Which left me in a pit of teen angst and utter desperation.

I didn’t remember the lined paper holding my childish imagination,

I didn’t remember what held me to my roots,

What aided me in remaining sane.

I didn’t remember what I could turn to

Until I did.

 

All of a sudden, a rush of remembrance flourished my soul.

I was sitting in class, talking mindless shit to a mediocre friend with a mediocre personality.

When my brain switched violently, I had an urge to write.

I had an urge to let go of all that was holding me back.

At first it was something scary. Something horrifying.

It was a suicide letter.

 

It was that.

It was written down.

It was done.

It was over with.

But, as I read over it.

Over

And

Over

And

Over, again.

I saw the stupidity in my planned actions.

I saw the ignorance that I was going to face.

And writing is what showed me.

Showed me my change.

And made me change.

 

Writing is what helped me and writing continued on.

After that terrifying day, I didn’t stop.

Thank God.

I wrote on the bus,

I wrote during class,

I wrote after school,

I wrote in the back of a teenage boys mustang,

I constantly wrote even when there was nothing to record it with.

It was always in my mind.

Always.

 

So, you ask me.

Why do you write?

 

I write because it’s an escape from reality.

An escape where I can be who I am and no one is there to tell me otherwise.

An escape that can tell others to be cautious of their actions,

An escape that can save a life, even my own.

 

I write because I can pour it all out.

Everything I need, everything I desire for.

I write it down in various forms.

Nothing to judge me,

the paper, the computer, the pen, the keyboard.

Those can’t judge me.

 

I write because it’s a stabilizer.

It holds me down,

It reflects all that I lack and what can be improved

I write so that I am an even-playing field

I write so that I have insight of who I am

Who I’ve always been.

 

So, you ask me.

Why do I write?

 

I write because when everything else falls out of your control.

And it seems as if you don’t belong in society.

You can escape society. You can escape what others hold you to.

And you can write.

I write.

I wish I never stopped. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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