Things seem to be happening very quickly. Some things were secrets. And I knew these secrets would never be appropriate, for any conversation, in any lifetime. However, it was my reality. Was anything good going to come out of this? There was too much to tell, and no one would understand. I didnt even understandso how could anyone else? It seemed improbable that I would get what was inside, out of me. It wasnt how I was raised to discuss this negativity . . . to air out ones dirty laundry, it just wasnt accepted. Was it all my fault? These vulgar and unprecedented events that were beginning to destroy me. I decided to block it out, keep it inside and keep moving with my life. Trying, waiting for the day I would get past it and walk through the door of the other side. The other side of all this madness. In the meantime, I had to do something with my emotions, my secrets and my feelings. They were locked up, tighter than tight. I began to write in journals. Entries that were poems and anecdotal stories of what was happening in my life. I had to become my own inspiration. I had to somehow get what was inside...out. A young girls life filled with devastation, tragedy and self-destruction was all on its way. It was already here! Still maintaining a happy, ambitious life but harboring guilt, anger and resentment. And dealing with the world and its own evolving. This is the story of over ten years of writings, from the ages of 1426 years. Someone leading themselves out of the dark and into the light. This was my way and this is my story. My story . . . in poetry.