WARNING,

I am about to share with you 

the views of an escapist,

Escaping a brutal reality.

Freeze.

This is no tale of a civilian in a

zone known for gang war. Ya see, this

warfare is psychological, and

most of my enemies are biological-ly

kin to me.

Alone, indeed, a one-man army;

a P.O.W from my P.O.V.

Enduring beatings, mental abuse, and verbal misusage.

"A Minor Playing Soldier Held Captive

By Relative Tormentor Escapes,"

a headline read by the saints, in awe, saying,

"How captivating."

I say this because only God knows my pain.

My childhood slain and it lies dead in my Lisa Frank diary.

My self-esteem died in me. My

conscience supplied me with bleach to drink.

Those who tormented me supplied, to me, the

double-edged sword, a pencil, to

cut myself even deeper as I bled which

developed my resilience,

Seeing to as

I didn't bleed to death,

It developed my metaphor deliverance.

Poetry to me is

my prose and song with a different way of delivering it. 

Writing helped save my life.

When I was lost, it found me which led to my spiritual deliverance.

Sadly, my "family" chose to doubt me.

Therefore, they'll never see how far their doubt got me.

Poetry in motion.

I have escaped from the

pain of my past to

a path toward success..

Writing is my esape.

Escapist.