The sky may be dark and the clouds may boil over in red-hot anger, but inside of me, it is calm. 

The world may be going crazy, obsessive and evil, but inside of my house, where I am alone, it is calm. 

My earbuds are in as I dance and sway gently, stepping over the furball that wants my love. I close my eyes and I smile, not because school is over or because of the misfortune of others, but because the music in my ears is now, and when I hear the music, I cannot ignore it.

All that my life is made of now is background music. Melodic tunes helping me drift off to sleep, fast beats that get my toes tapping as I go about my day. My life is made of music, my fingers even now flow to the beat of a song, singing softly to the emptiness of my house.

On my walk to my garden, lovely and green? I listen to music, lugging a watering can with me while I attempt to dance even then. 

I do not care for silence, the loud space where the music does not fill. I feel empty without the music, I feel lost without the songs that so often flow through my ears.

I don't swear in life, I don't release my frustrations with vulgar words. It is not my way. I release my anger with writing and music, two things that I love. I mourn that when I must choose a career writing will have no place in my options. I mourn that once school starts again I will have no time for my favorite activity. I mourn that no one knows of my sanctuary, this godforsaken website where everyone, and yet no one, listen to the tears and cries of lonely artists.

I mourn that rhymes no longer come easily to me as they did not yet a month ago, with elegant wording taking its place. The twisting of words to become what I want is such a powerful thing, and it comes easily to me, instead of rhymes that so often are labeled as a poem.

But is this not a poem, too? Do the words not paint a picture, do they not calm your anxious soul? Are all of my feelings not poured into these paragraphs like the rain pours down in a hurricane?

Not many find their eyes on my pages, but I do not write for them. I write for me, I write so that all of my pent-up anger may not chill my heart with its hate. I write because I want to, because my life is not decided by the actions of others, but by what I do.

And what do I do?

I put my earbuds in and let time slow to a stop as the background music takes over, and I write.