Two hundred lines of dry ink and broken dreams

I write not for people
I write so that the thoughts within my head
Do not develop into evil
Things that I will soon come to regret
I write for myself
I write so that my soul has an outlet
I started a journey, during which I wrote
Oh so many poems for me
If they were to describe my story
Then each is a line of dry ink and broken dreams
I am not content with he who I am
Who am I is a question I often ask
Wondering, pondering poking and prodding
Questioning the very nature of my fabric
When spoken to I'm often idly nodding
For my attention is often empty and barren
I am living within the infinite versions of the past self
I am alive within the world in which I've created in my mind
It is a shelter from all that which attempts to delve
Deeper than I am ready to share that night
Two hundred lines of dry ink and broken dreams
Two hundred lines, scattered across them all
Is the rawest, purest form of the vessel that is me
What is the soul, does it exist?
Do I exist?
Am I free to live and think?
Am I predestined for greatness
Or will I die in the obscurity for which I always yearn
Walking contradiction of all things unearned
I am no poet, but poetry I write
I am often worried, in my mind I hide
I am no warrior even though I survived my inner wars
The conflict that flickered within did often roar
But quietly it did to not wake the people up
For only I were to stay awake within its walls
But I beat it nonetheless
In fact, I beat them all
Or so I tell myself to pass the time
Pray I never have to face my demons alone
To tell the truth I've not been alive
For the past seven years or so
Two hundred freaking lines
Dry ink that's filled with my tears
Glued together with that which I could find
Trying to mend my own dreams
I broke and was rebuilt, time and time again
Often by my own hands
Rarely but sometimes, by a friend's
These hands that sow my own misery often
Write away all the thoughts under the weight of which I'd break
These hands that I find often roaming
Have never wished for a rest or break
I write for me, to set me free
I write so that I am more than what I seem
I write so that the sum of my part can never amount to more
Than what I was before
A little boy running through the fields
I look upon him with hope
That I can be him again one day
That I can become so free that I'd run and play
That my soul wouldn't dry like my ink down there
That my fears won't break my dreams again
Like they did before
I pray that I can outlive this storm
There's no lighthouse to guide, and the stars are dim
I wonder if I will live enough to grow old
Or will I pass to make space for those who will come
A question that often lingers deep within
Within the hottest summers I'm often cold
Cooled down by my thoughts that are born from
The darkest reaches of that which lurks beneath the skin
I am what I am
I know not what that is
I know that I am because I write
Or so do say my friends
Worthy or not I am, is irrelevant
To what I am to become when I grow some more
I've reached the ceiling of what me and myself can do for us
Help is what I need, but seek it I do not
I hope I was brave like I claim to be
I hope that my thoughts could be as bare as the paper on which I breathe
My rhymes and little word schemes
Two hundred lines of dry ink
Two hundred lines of loss and pain
Two hundred lines of broken dreams
Two hundred lines that kept me sane
I write to keep myself from the demons
Built the dam with thoughts and words
The architect of my own freedom
Unsure if I will ever live to growing old
Unsure if I will even want to
Mortal fear is something that rarely grips me
For me and death are old friends
Two hundred lines within which I've ripped me
Apart and rebuilt me anew
And I'll keep doing so till my very end
Here's to two hundred written
And to two hundred more, too
I know not who I am
But I hope, that more than I mean to myself
I mean to you