I've read poetry since I was a little girl.

The words upon the pages took me to another world.

They told me of a raven who spoken of time gone past.

They told me of the fae stealing children then running fast.

They took me away when I was full of sorrow.

When my sisters lies nearly carved my parrents hollow.

They gave me refuge when grandpa was given angel wings.

And they held my hand when grandma followed him singing.

Then one day I stopped in my hand was a pen.

The words flowed out on paper the way yang dances with yin.

I had found an outlet, a drug that killed my fears.

I realized I could join the greats that held my hand for years.

Now when I have someone beloved die, when I am cursed or betrayed.

I turn to writting out my fears upon a screen or page.

No my life has not only been pain and strife.

But that is what currently motivates me to write.

I may tomorrow write of my truest love.

How he makes me smile, and is like the angels above.

Yes perhaps that tomorrow love will see me through.

But in the here and now, pain is my motivation true.