A notebook. A pen. Swirling thoughts raced inside my head. Biting lips. Darting eyes. My emotions were in disguise. Overwhelmed? Yes that’s true. It left me with only one thing to do. To put my pen and paper to work, for it was the only means to resolve the hurt. For some reason the words I said could not accurately describe the dread. I scribbled and wrote. Upon throwing that crumpled up piece of paper, I broke. After I threw it against the wall, the realization said it all. For I was that crumpled up piece of paper lying there. That was exactly how I had felt: written on, used, worn out. Hopefully it is clear to see, what writing has done for me. A paragraph. A page. Lingering thoughts no longer stuck inside my cage. I have filled countless notebooks to the brim, all written on what seemed like a whim. It is a belief that the power of the simple word showers unexplainable relief. Finished? Not yet, for I still wish to see what writing can do for thee.