My Vigilant Saviour, Poetry.

A young child of 10 discovered people never understood; when she spoke yet with her hands...her writing ,she communicated volumes.

As my hand glides across paper,
Words flow as naturally as breathing....
Speaking becomes obsolete, unnecessary.

Poetry attracted the young timid soul to be something more than just silence.
She learned she had a voice, a soft yet strong one.
A voice that questioned her reality-her life.
A voice that probed at the issues held captive by tranquil brown eyes.

Why open my mouth when I can write? When I can illustrate my point? Introduce my audience, or lack thereof, to my world of words and wonder?

She wrote poems,short stories
Anything to help her feel alive,
to help fill the hole.

The collection of thoughts in my head streaming from my faithful pen, disorganized and temperamental yet strong. Powerful enough to stand the test of time, to show the world a different view.

The hole left from a lack of family, a lack of belief in people who claim to want a part of her life....
She, I, became independent.
Still writing, still seeking to fill the hole.

Poetry Saved Her, saved the cracked pieces she refused to lose.

Her Vigilant Saviour.

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