Ha! How the hell should I know?
I couldn't after two long years.
So ***. Oh well. I'm just done.

I'm writing the story of my life,
  and I'm not letting anyone hold the pen.
      The pen is mightier than the sword.
    I'll write out all my pain, damage, fear.
                I'll shoot for the moon,
     even if I miss I'll land among the stars.
  They all told me that because of my past,
     I could never become anything great,
              that I'd never have success,
                  never be good enough,
   that what they did to me was my fault.
                   I wanted to grow up.
                          I finally did.
                 I excaped their torture.
            Now, I keep writing my story.
             Write. Edit. Change. Repeat.
        I'm not even completely grown up.
                                 2 years.
                 But it's happening now...
         I've started toa ture into an adult.
                     Frankly, I'm scared.
           I'm not exactly sure what to do.
      I'm taking over sooner than planned,
              I'm working a real job now,
      I'm responsible for sisters well being.
                       I just don't know.
                          But that's ok.
        I have my faith and I have my pen.
I don't want to miss out on the people who
                have me mesmerised...
But how can I captivate them and weave
                       them a story?
       I don't know. I don't know if I can.
      My rythem and rhyme is so unique,
          there's no hope in attempting
     to intertwine another beautiful soul.
           I'm sorry. I just don't know.
                      All I do know is
      The pen is mightier than the sword.

They say I've always wanted to be a poet.
That's true,
at least in part.
I love writing beautiful words,
expressing mixtures of emotions,
turing words into extravagant art,
confessing my love,
but never actually expressing my love.
I love the safe excape that it gives.
The excape from abuse,
self-harm,
shame,
disappointment,
and fear.
But if I'm being honest,
the thing I want more than to be a poet...

          Is to be someone else's poem.

I wanted to write down
exactly what I felt
but somehow
the paper stayed empty

and I could not have
described it any better

I wait for you in a
place where the sea
meets the sky.

Where ocean waves
swell against gentle
white shores.

Where the familiar
path ends and the
unknown begins.

I wait for you.

Each day as the evening starts to set
         The ache builds in her chest
   She knows that she must go to bed

She hugs her tearstained pillow close
           When no one is around
And cries for the one she loved and lost
        And screams without a sound

          Others see her in the day
         And think she's doing well
       But every day as evening sets
           She enters her own hell

     Time hasn't healed her pain at all
             Or quieted her fears
         So every night, alone in bed
         She sheds thoes silent tears
                            ~af