I thought I was lost,
but the truth is I only lost my pen.
Once I found it again,
I wrote stories that said fiction on their spines,
but the truth is they are a reality I see.
Words I couldn't say,
because the hand of the past covered my mouth.
The times I couldn't look into the mirror,
but now everything seems clearer with my pen.
These things only needed to escape me.
They needed to live and breath to set me free.
I thought they needed to be dead and beaten with a shovel,
but I was wrong.
They needed to grow stronger,
so I could fight the total war.
So I could learn I'm strong,
that I could remove the hand and speak.
That I could walk and breath and be happy.
Now my books lie and rest with me.
Fiction that is a reality.
A place where my soul can speak.