I learned how to write when I could no longer speak,
Time traveled through literature and escaped into a realm of tattered pages and tear soaked ink.
I found my voice inside of forgotten words and unending rhyme schemes.
When I could no longer speak, the ink flowed easily
And the thought flowed even easier.
Releasing my inhibition on to blank pages accompanied by cold coffee and early morning sunshines,
I learned yet again that heroes I regarded sat on top a bookshelf rather than on a screen or in an album.
They gave me voice, comfort, and solace inside of my own head.
The voice I lacked for so many years, came naturally when typing away,
It was then that I finally felt free.