There was this time I wanted to die, nobody listened, and bitterly angry tears flowed as I cried alone. Then I found a notebook and a pen, I remember the first stroke, feeling human again. Oh how I wanted to die. Emotions, low self-esteem flowing from within, lines of self-degradation, hatred, and frustration painted my face. I felt so ill-fated to continue running life’s race. Oh God, how I was ready to die! How I wanted the sorrows to end, but I am so thankful for that notebook and pen! Nights swam by as I sat in my bed, crying, tears rolling down my face, until the first stroke of that pen, as black as my heart felt began to create words, began to create life, and I cried. As the reaper of death loomed within my shadow, I found a savior in poetic prose. Slowly, my words began to heal such a torn soul. There was a time when I opened that notebook of mine and words of sorrow turned into words of strength, and I cried. Without bitterness I cried with joy that words saved my life, the words once used to tear me down began to bring me back, began to lift me up, began to make the pain go away. Poetry became more than just noise, more than a hobby, more than a therapeutic chore after I laid on the psychologist's floor. I thought poetry saved me, but really poetry gave me the power to save myself.