I remember when I used to read to escape,
Losing myself in words that laughed and danced and played.
I was young.
I found a life I could stand.

I remember falling asleep with my head buried in a book.
I dreamed of heroes and heroines.
I guess fantasy made a better bed fellow.
I built my notions of romance at her footstool.
Falling in love the surreal dream come true.

I remember writing my first lines,
I couldnt tell verse from paragraph.
I wrote myself a lifeline.
Wove something that wasnt ugly or tainted.
I had something to bleed out the pain,
With ink stains instead of bruises and cuts.

I remember trying to change my story.
No one told me however good you write you can't do your own story.
So am peering out of my fears and thinking what good is this gift if all it does is create a bridge to run away but I end up smack in the middle of where I left?