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Writing is like a form of therapy.
My pen floods with an ocean of ideas
Stories of heroes fighting tyranny,
a poem of graceful ballerinas,
dancing in the bright spotlights of the stage.
I could write endless sonnets like Shakespeare
about young love fated to never age.
These I do write and so nice they appear,
but still real life can be so atrocious.
When our world heats up and our oceans die,
and changing peoples ways seems hopeless,
When malaria ridden children lie,
Because for them nobody cared to fight,
this is when I pick up my pen and write.