My hands, my voice.


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!



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.

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