The Writer

Pieces of my soul,
Scattered on this sheet,
Moments where I faltered,
I felt incomplete.

Sometimes I wrote in happiness,
But pain, it flowed with ease,
No depths I could not reach,
When writing on my knees.

In days of old I'd run to write,
Expel the hurt I had,
Turn it into something more,
Writing out the bad.

It could be raw and very dark,
Fear was often there,
Tears running, minds were racing,
Blooms of deep despair.

Youth went by, life did change,
Love had found its way,
Breaking through this wall I built,
Hiding every day.

I came to find the words inside,
To express each facet of being,
My passion became something more,
Than something that was freeing.

It became me, held back nothing,
Emotions free to flow,
It helped me understand the things,
I never did quite know.

It helped me find a voice to speak,
Reach those held in wanting,
Voice my spirit to my peers,
In a way that was not daunting.

Now I sit and write today,
For nothing more than joy,
This call I hear deep inside,
That nothing can destroy.

For even if you read my words,
And find nothing that you need,
I bared my soul and all I hold,
For more than you to read.