A scared little girl picked up a tattered old text

She fell in love with the tiny black characters on the cream colored pages

She found herself in every page and then on to the next

She felt in her heart a desire to create that she had never known

 

So she picked up a pen and pressed it to paper

And from the depths of her heart and hero was created

And out of the pits of her soul a danced a challenge

And she wrote and wrote in her messy hand until her desire was sated

 

She created a tale that while childish and choppy

Held the heart and soul of her body

Held onto the words of a child despite the fact they were sloppy

Held by a thread of hope that she could always create like this

 

As this little girl grew up she kept pressing her pen to the paper

The tiny letters got neater and the words gained a driving force

The heroes grew with her, facing new challenges as she learned to deal with her own

The heart in her chest clung onto these works of fiction as though she weren’t their source

 

To her these stories were real

Those words a part of her soul inked to the page

Those heroes a part of her heart ripped out and never to heal

Those stories were her everything

That little girl with a book in here hand

I am that little girl

I am the one putting her stories to paper

I am holding onto that thread of a hope I can give this a whirl

 

There is one job that could change my life a dream I am hoping I don’t fail

I want to be a writer

I want to tell my tale

I want to share my stories