Writing...

"I wrote with tears and anguish, pouring into the pages all the pain that life had meant to me."

-Upton Sinclair

When I first started writing poetry, it was for privacy. My brothers found their way into my diary and my outlet was stolen. So I tried to get poetic; put my life on pages and sold the story as someone elses. And it worked for a while, until I begin to give too many details. Everyone knew, I was a poet. A poet who faced her demons and others head on with words, (The pen is mightier than the sword right).

As time progressed, I realize that writing has briefly summarized not only my struggles, but also, the battles I see second hand. Writing has analyzed the content to produce solutions. Whether the solution is a direct one, or just the beginning of one, progress is made.

However, lately, my progress has been minimal. No longer writing for me or the people I was once so close to, I find my path changing. So I step back and question, am I becoming well rounded, or losing part of me...