Written

It's funny the way that I write,
midnight on my lowest days,
as if this pain holds me accountable,
as if it pushes me to feel where I can not,
it's when I close my eyes and pray for the solace in this world,
that my brain takes over,
I dream too y'know,
well and very often,
The night tarrors that struck me young lay with me still,
and so I chose to write instead. 

my brain creates a list of words,
of feelings and emotions,
a laundry list to put on paper,
the words left best unspoken.

If I were to ask for help,
id prove myself as wrong,
but I simply put words in writing,
listing all that'd gone.