My journey through this world,
With my written words as my expression
Started when I was 10 years old,
When grandma’s death left me to question-
Why do people die, and what does it all mean?
Her life-less lovely face in a coffin,
Was the scariest thing I’d ever seen.
The answers my family offered,
Didn’t leave me feeling any better-
So I sat down at my desk
To write my dead grandmother a letter.
What ended up on that paper-
were indeed thoughts of my own
and when Mama read it to herself-
she told me, what I‘d written was a poem.

So, I guess
I write to make sense of things I don’t understand
Like a good friend, in times of need
My words lend a helping hand.

***

When I found out my lil sister got raped
My perception of reality crumbled-
I was overwhelmed with remorse, anger and hate
Hate for the bastard who we called “brother”,
--anger at myself for not protecting her better.
And remorse for the broken heart I could see in the eyes of my mother.
The hate manifested and became my inner demons,
whose whispers left me with the thoughts,-"I could kill him"
Keepin me tossin and turning, restless in my sleep
Couldn’t concentrate on shit, it was hard to even eat.
Everytime I looked in her young face, I felt so full of shame
And all I could wonder was if she’d ever be same.
Would her smile ever again reflect the innocence that he stole
Wishing it had been me instead, that way she would still be whole.
The only way I could free my soul and release-
The only way I knew how to seek inner peace
With myself and the rage boiling inside my soul
Was to put my pen to the pad, and let it all go.
And tho my words weren’t strong enough
To turn back the hands of time
They were all I could do to express my love to her
And all the feelings that were mine.

So I guess,
I write to excorcise the demons in my soul
Like a priest’s prayer and holy water,
My words are the strength I use to take control.

***

When my mother took her last breath in front me,
My whole world shattered, and my soul died inside of me.
At 15 years old, I felt cheated that God took her away,
And I lost whatever faith I had on that awful Christmas day.
Why? Why ? Why?
Why did MY mother have to die?
How? How? How?
How were WE, without HER, supposed to get by?
All the fights and arguments, the times I said things I didn’t mean.
Couldn’t say I’m sorry now, couldn’t go back, and wipe our slate clean.
Couldn’t tell her I love her, or thank her for everything she’d ever done
Couldn’t hug her ever again.. no more kisses would ever come.
Couldn’t ever pay her back for the sacrifices that she had made
Couldn’t tell her how she eased me, all the times I was afraid.
Couldn’t talk to anyone, for they’d NEVER understand-
How empty it feels to walk alone
And not be able to reach out and hold her hand.
I prayed to God to take me too, so I could be with her again.
“as I lay me down to sleep, I pray my soul you take to keep- amen”
But with pieces of my broken heart lying next to me, tomorrow came again
And when I didn’t think I could take no more, I went and found my pen.
The paper soaked up all the tears that my soul cried,
As I scripted about the day my mom died.
Then I wrote her a poem, I knew she could never read-
But that’s the first time, I ever really let my pen bleed.
I never found the answers that I so desperately longed for
There are no why’s or how’s..but still I wrote more.
I wrote until, I had no more words left to write
And then I came to understand- I would hurt forever
But I was gonna be alright.

So I guess,
I write when there’s no one else to listen
Like Andy’s hammer in Shawshank-
My words help me escape from my prison.

So now you know-
When my thoughts keep me up at night-
these are a few of the many reasons that I write.