She was no poet, no writer...but it was a part of her

I once knew a woman who would write poems.

This woman was no poet, not even a writer, but her writing connected her to her heart, her soul, and her revelations.

Her writing and poetry would consist of tears from her struggles, pain from her past, her search to find peace and strength.

The poems and writing were a part of her.

They were a connection between the past and the present; they were treasures from her soul’s travels.

They were pulled together on scraps of paper filled with her mind’s gems and formed into cries from the deepest parts of her.

Her writing somehow unleashed her soul, making it possible for her to share what was within her heart.

Her poems were yearnings from her heart, questions from her soul, and a passageway to freedom.

They were not just words; they were deep cries from her mind, her innermost secrets.

Though her writing, she was able to share what was inside of her when she could no longer hide, no longer forget.

The deep seeded pain held inside for many years was now put into words, her tears formed sentences, her anguish and shame into paragraphs.

Writing shared anonymously, because anonymity was something she could trust.