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“The first time my trust was broken, I found comfort in a pen. Cradled tear stained pages smeared with the laments of distrust and the filth left behind by this feeling of loneliness in this cold world, and through the ink, faith was restored in a world unworthy to receive it. The first time I felt my heart break, I picked up a pen. Let the broken pieces find their way onto the page with my eyes closed and with each stroke, my heart mended itself. The first time I found out what it felt like to die a little inside, I looked for resurrection between thin blue lines and margins that seemed endless, and without hesitation life was restored with word, each grammatically incorrect phrasing, like oxygen and I had been suffocating too long, so I write until I am no longer blue in the face, produce poetry like my life depends on it because it does, end all be all, my alpha and omega, you see… this is my lifeline…this is my life.”