So I’ll tell you why I write.
I write because I’m the protagonist of my own stories.
I write because in my stories, I solve the problems that invariably creep up between people and I
In the most heroic ways possible
I write because in my world,
Not every rainbow ends in a *** of gold
But sliding across its multicolour will be the happiest memory in your mind
I write because my stories are clouds that do have real silver linings
I write because 3 am is time for chai, and childhood stories
Impromptu bike rides to greet the sleeping night
But all I can do is write.
I write because I’m angry and frustrated but
you asked me not to turn my anguish onto my body
and leave battle scars for the world to question -
so I write instead.
I write because sometimes,
the tumult in my head comes from
words that are struggling to spill forth from my brain
and stain empty pages with their loud meaning.
I write because
Writing is the only way I have to make sense
of this messy world we live in.

So many posts, so many poets, all with so much to say:
From depression to elation, amusement or anger,
Face happy melancholy on a lonely nostalgia,
For ridiculous notions of false power, ugly truths
and beauty which scours
a battle between angst
and acceptance in their most forlorn hours, spent
at home or away, throughout night or day, so many words
struggling to capture, release or keep at bay
these things we all feel everyday.

Sometimes I just don't know what to say
so I let another's words give my thoughts away:
"I guess I could be pretty ******* about what happened to me, but it's hard to stay mad when there's so much beauty in the world.
Sometimes I feel like I'm seeing it all at once, and it's too much.
My heart fills up like a balloon that's about to burst;
And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain, and I can't feel anything but gratitude
for every single moment of my stupid little life."
That's all I didn't have to say.

A pile of letters,
all sealed with a kiss.
A boy in a bathroom,
slitting his wrists...
A girl in a closet,
a gun to her head...
A boy on a bridge,
one jump intill he's dead...
A girl in the bathtub,
holding her breath...
They all were happy children,
awaiting their death......

You call me your Cinderella because of my past
Well you should know that fairy tales don't last
I thought you were my prince but little did I know
That you were just putting on a show
You called me your angel because of my "beautiful" face
But now I realize that I  was just your charity case
Well don't worry about your little princess
I'm no longer the damsel in distress
And now I  know the word love was created for a fairytale that don't live in.