I'm a writer trying to make everyone understand,

But really I'm just a man who's doing the best he can.

I like to think I'm a writer, who writes to feel better,

Who transfers his emotion from pen to paper with each letter.

But I can't help but wonder if I condemn myself and pencil;

If I create new misery just for poetic potential.

But life is poetic, and need be observed,

And I face all my problems with my big bag of words.

Nostalgia is reckless and hits very hard.

It sings songs from my bedroom and stands yelling in my yard;

And I document each instance with the dearest of care -

Getting sad and feeling satisfied, like a fresh breath of bad air.

Knowing that I'm happy, feeling sad and making art;

Taking solace in the outcome of a hurting human heart.

It's not to say that I've spent my entire life

Bumming along with head in hands, looking for strife.

I indulge in the analysis, even if I'm not laughing.

I indulge, and I create, and it makes me very happy.

I also know how to walk on the side that shines brighter.

My name is Danny. I'm a human and a writer.