An old blue journal, on the top of the shelf; tucked behind antiques, and as alone as I felt. I waited until he slept, so I could reach my arm up high; to get an opportunity to dream, to finally suppress his cries. I was only eight years old, such a dandy time to spend; frolicking in a jovial place, instead on imagination, I'd depend. I'd live within poem entries, a place far unlike Earth's noose; a location where my dad loved me, and there was never abuse. This journal and poetry saved me, for a moment, I was not alone; the instant the pen struck paper, I was infinite miles from home.