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I have carried with me,
through every town I chose to flee
into every house I tried to make my home
the only thing that is just my own
Years would pass sometimes
when I would not write one line
Because of shame, or circumstance
or I just hadn't had the chance
cardboard boxes filled with pages
of unfinished thoughts and
fragments of hopes and memories
endless half filled notebooks
and random bits of paper
have followed me through
this life that I have made
Words put down just for me
because I had no other way
to keep my heart or sanity
For what I needed to say
ink was my only voice
The words were my only self
there was no one else
I had no other choice
stories started but not complete
songs unfinished and never sung
poems that once had meaning
now forgotten and not understood
pages meant for other things
used instead to catch an inspiration
set aside for reasons unknown
waiting always to be taken up again

New pages always meant a new start
to release the feelings in my heart
In a secret place in my mind
I had always hoped to find
the courage to show my words
to someone out there in the world
who might be helped somehow
by feelings I'd have written anyhow

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