Hoping like a child would,

Was the demise of my childhood.

Suffering tyrannical oppression for most of my life,

Created a demon inside of pain and strife.

Writing on parchment made of skin,

This is where my life begins.

A story that unfolds itself,

To eventually be the storybook of myself.

Binding false hopes with shattered dreams,

Allows me to fashion my anthology of melted ruby streams.

I write to live and I live to write,

These dark memories have kept me up all night.

This pen grows cold as I sit in pain,

Waiting for the ink to drain.

Puddles of a murky darkness sit upon this page,

Waiting there it dries like blood as I sit and age.

I pull and pull this anchor chain,

To one day be published again.