sararaven

It still amazes me how writing can bring back a flood of memories. I guess that is my blessing and my curse.

Fiffteen years since I first put a pen to paper thinking "what the hell, I can do this" and the words poured out of me. It was as if they were sitting there just waiting for me to give them a chance to escape. It still calls to me when I see a blank notebook, I have 3 blank notebooks why do I need more? For the first time the pen leaves it mark, for the stories, the rants the words that leak out.

So now in light of this entry I suppose I should post the first thing I ever wrote:

**Trapped**
The fist is about to strike
as the child cries "Mommy why?".
You can hear the slap through the
cries of pain.
At night she is crying,
lying awake, trying to figure out
a way to break free,
but the locks, chains and
bolts won't unravel,
and the truth can't come out.
For she is trapped in her own hell
called "home".