My First Words

At the age of sixteen my mother gave me a diary. The book full of empty pages seemed like a new frontier. Through out the new diary were quotes from the Khalil Gibran. I held the red hardcover guild in gold writing closely. I hurriedly grabbed a pen. My first words fell onto the empty pages like diamond dust. I could finally see myself. For a time I was in a fog. The home in which I dwell was never really home. At sixteen the diary was what I needed. My eyes were opening. I began to know and tangibly hold in my hand a way to express the enslavement of my soul and the afflictions of silent pain. Outward my blood splashed on the pages of my Khalil Gibran diary. My first words were cathartic. The diary gave validation to my existence. I hadn't mattered up until the diary. I skirted against the corners and shadows of our apartment. I always question why I was here? My first words in an organized manner began to form a map. A path to my purpose in life. My writings became my reprieve! My time to escape the thorny cage in which my soul was held captive. I the born writer, poet and visionary. The survivor of a chaotic upbringing. I don't have warm memories of cookies being baked. My memories are of when the dark shadow would make his appearance and the dam would break. Some how I've lived to tell the story. To bring hope to the hopeless.