Ever since I was young, I’ve had a strong interest in reading. I could spend hours with my face buried in a book, lost in a fantasy. Reality would slip away, and I would be flying beside airplanes or running across the safari with zebras. As I got into middle school, I would use books as an escape, forgetting the evils of my life. This would lead to me writing my own stories and poems, reflecting on my emotions and dreams for a better day to come. I could fill buildings with the words floating around in my mind, threatening to spill out.
             I never felt connected with my own life, but I would conjure meaning and purpose in my writing. I could be anybody I needed to that day. With a pencil and paper, I could write my own future, aspirations, and free the hurt from my heart. When it felt like all hope was lost and I could go no further, I had the notebook to turn to. It was almost like having a friend that would never give judgment but instead be open to everything you need to expel, keeping your secrets from the world. Writing has become a crucial part of my everyday routine. As my family became more distant, I relied on being able to write poems. It made me feel like I still had a purpose in this world. I took this opportunity to start telling my life experiences rather than living in a fantasy. I wanted the world to know me and accept me. I needed the people around me to see the hurt in my heart and hear my words, but I was afraid to speak out. I craved acceptance and love.
             When I had become separated from my siblings and the ones I truly loved, I turned to write more than ever. For hours I would write and rewrite every emotion I felt. Throwing all these feelings on a sheet to get them out and free me from them. Notebooks overflowing, papers scattered with words tattooed up and down them. I desired release, and writing was the only way to feel remotely hopeful for the future. As I entered high school, I had started losing hope f...