I write to cope with

The pressures of life

The demands of the people around me

The society that drags my hopes and dreams

Around and around on the ground

With the advertisements, the commercials, the

Magazines and promises to make me look like 

Society's version of beauty, so that

The push to be like it's image of success

Is entangled around my neck, loose enough

To trick me into thinking I can let go

But tight enough to keep me from rising up 

Off my knees in blind servitude. 

 

When life knocks me down, I write.

When frustrations cloud my thinking, I write.

I clear the foggy air of despair 

With the blunt stroke of my pen.

Don't get me wrong, I'm no Shakespreare, 

I'm no Poe, Whitman, or Browning.

I certainly am not Angelou Jr. or descend from Cummings' line.

Yet and still, I write what's on my mind.

Because as beautiful or ugly it may be

My writing reflects what inside of me.