Subjugated to emotional heights,
My frail pre-teen mind succumbed to the sweet,
underlying comfort a typewriter provides.
I could throw my heart at something,
without it being ripped to shreds,
or scrutinized under the eyes of those who remain unsaid.
Despair had overridden me,
I was balancing on the edge of their treacherous words,
Night after night, my crying was unheard.
I strangled my emotions and shoved them in a box,
The key, nothing but a broken pen and an infinite vessel,
To store my thoughts in as I grew dismal.
Despite their cruel intentions, I tried as I might,
And I never gave up, I learned how to fight.
This is the reason, the reason why I write.

Over the years, I grew more defined,
My hands laced with bolder, words so divine.
A young woman of only ten and five,
My choices became more and more confined.
From what I thought was heartbreak,
poured several lost rhymes,
From what I thought was unfair,
came too many powerful reasons to fight.
And all in the process,
I became who I am.
This is the reason, the reason why I can.

Now that I'm older, my mind has been reshaped.
I think of new ways to reach the unscathed.
For they have much to learn,
much to hate,
much to love,
and much to make.
My mantra is the sound of pen against paper,
For I know somehow, I will reach land.
And those who are suffering will always calm down,
when they read my heart and witness the scars,
and I tell them that they CAN.

Lost little girls who were patronized and forgotten,
will be remembered where bruises and scraped knees are gotten.
And I'll be there to lend a helping hand,
A soothing voice among devilish grins.
They too, will find comfort in an old typewriter.

I write for them.