Writing

Writing It’s a strange thing Really A collection of symbols Thrown together in a cacophony of sounds Our minds have learned to understand And then one day to create on their own I am such a person Writing endlessly Discovering my passion in the forums of a Children’s site A mere middle schooler Unsure of footing, but a quick Learner Learning to breathe life into an empty Canvas Like a painter with his brush and pastels Like a musician with his scores and horn I discovered myself in my craft Creating personas only I could understand Leaving pieces of myself out to dry After becoming damp from my own tears Drawing from others, molding this creation Inadvertently molding Myself And then I was introduced to poetry In my junior year of high school Where I learned that not everything Was sentences and Paragraphs I never quite understood WHY Distorting the prose was so Alluring But it is And was And will be And I will not cease I will relish in the echoing sounds Of fingers pecking away at the keys of a monitor Like the pecking birds upon a window pane Attacking their reflection As if I am attacking the reflection of me that I wish never existed They say that writing is the key to the soul. I am a firm believer of this, For the heart is where these words bloom Like the bleeding roses of our mind Behind every story Every song Every poem (such as this one) There is a heart That is crying Screaming Ripping apart every fiber of what holds it back The heart is laid bare against the sky Vulnerable But standing strong against the odds Breathing in new ideas and encouragement Fighting back those that dare to tear them down I write to lay myself bare And to fight back against those who dare To pull Me Down.