When I wrote it was as if I were possessed by the spirit of a poet who sought reincarnation through me to be heard. Words swarmed inside my head like fireflies; illuminating the blackness that was my mind, and enlightening the weary soldier that was my soul. Energy flowed through my veins as the pen painted the sheets of paper with my heart. No battle is more heart fought, and more draining, than the one one has with himself. For over a decade, a war was raging between the inner me and the outside world. Once I began writing, the war was now winnable. Every day I fought my demons. My weapons of choice: a pen, preferably black; and the majestic carrier of emotions that was my notebook. I still was sleeping, but it was a gloomy harmonious sleep.