I've always loved writing, putting pen down to paper,
When high school hit it became second nature.
In an instant it went from a little to a lot
Like an addiction, but unlike my peers it wasn't pot.
Instead I found a tiny black book
And opened it up to take a small look.
What lay before me was endless pages
Without another thought I began to fill it with rages:
Why that boy had been so mean
And for nights on end I cried and screamed
For that love I'd lost with my best friend,
Guess he's just another boy now- who knew that would end.
I wrote about the dangers that lurked in the world
And the fears that made me want to stay in my bed all curled.
Why did men call to us on the streets,
Was it a game to them? Are we just meat?
And why were people all over being shot
Because their skin color was different than the cop.
Why was a head scarf used as a sign of terror
When it really represents five times a day prayer.
I wrote about what hurt, clearly and hard
Like Hemingway suggested, using what leaves me scarred.
But a miraculous thing happened, it stopped hurting so much
The more transparent my writing, the stronger the touch.
I was using the ugly, the horrid, distasteful
To make something aesthetic, touching and graceful.
The heavy emotion behind the words could stay
But it would lift the weight in my heart high away.
In some odd way I felt I was a larger part
Of what, I didn't know, but at least it was a start.
And that's why it was poetry that I chose to start writing,
It was my way to conquer problems and shed some lighting
On the deepest dilemmas that lay at the root
Of all causes in which I'd no longer stay mute.