My hands, my voice.

Location

The first time I held a book, I was a mere three years of age.

I had no idea what the imprinted words on the book meant,

Only, that I wanted to read them, know them, understand them.

By the age of four I was sure, I could read almost everything in every book.

Or so it seemed that way to me, unfourtanately, most of my vocabulary had been made up.

That mattered not to me, for I had things to say and I wanted to be heard!

 

By the age of seven, my wonderful mother taught me how to be heard.

I had learned to read and write beatifully by that age,

and my Mother saw that my writing skills (if honed) could take me places,

places I couldn't even dream of at the age of seven.

So She, and my Father bought me a computer so I could start writing.

Seven years later my first short story was created.

 

I had never dreamed I would accomplish something like what I had created.

Something, bold, warm, and printed on to white beautiful pages of paper.

One-hundred and seventy-five pages made up the life that was my short story, 

Before that it was two years of hard work, dedication, (blood,  sweat, and sometimes even tears)

So that I could be heard.

Without the help from my Mother, I'm sure (Without a doubt) I wouldn't be here today.

 

She is the one and only reason I have a voice today.

She is the one and only reason I am who I am.

She is the reason that I write!

Comments

Mavrck_F

the first lines drew me here because I fell in love with books at an early age also. I stayed for the storyline. Great story. Great poem. Thanks for sharing part of your life in this poem.

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741