Puzzle Pieces

I write to cleanse. I write to breathe.

But I fear there may be something else that I need.

A quick hit and a few spoken words

nestled together like sleeping birds.

My Characters are always real.

Their hurts and pains I can feel.

To dash their dreams

means to rip apart the seams

Of the reality I have constructed

and their lives are interrupted.

To steal away my pen 

is surely a sin.

For if I can no longer write

what is left of me but a soldier without sight.

To keep water from soap

is like asking an orphan to cope.

An aunt with no nephews or neices 

I am a puzzle without its pieces.

I am fine as a queen with no crown.

But take my characters and you break me down.