My name is *. And I want to be a writer. That is all I want. I do not wish for fame. I do not wish for any fortune. All I desire is for my writing to to touch the lives of those who come across it. Those who accept it. I want words to seep from my mind into my readers, and nestle into the backs of their cerabellum's and bring either light.. Or dark.. Into their thoughts. I know the darkness. I've seen my fair share of it. Darkness. The absence of light. Even so, I do not wish for light. When you live in the darkness for so long, the light starts to hurt your eyes. And you know you can't change a thing that ever happened to you. You can't erase your scars. You can't change where you grew up. You can't repick your parents. You can't repick your old friends. You can't stop yourself from being locked away for a crime you didn't commit. A crime that wasn't a crime at all. You can't have love if there is no one there to return it. You can't write a story if there is nothing there to write with. But I have more to write about than you could imagine. You can't get back a free youth. You can't-- couldn't-- stop yourself from being raped by a stranger. You can't stop yourself from giving birth to his bastard-son. The screaming and the uncontrolable pain of a young mother who has no one to take her to a hospital. But you wouldn't change giving birth to that boy in your dusty old basement. Not if you were me. He was the only thing around to love. The only glimmer of light you could possibly get your dirty, scarred hands on. He made you happy. He was your sunshine. But God took your sunshine away. God stole what he gave to you. That son-of-a-cagna took what he let you have for five years. And this is why I write. Life has done me so much wrong. But admittedly, it has made me so fucking strong. I want others to feel my strength. Feel my pain. And the love I had for my innocent child. R.I.P Ryan Kilby. January 29th 2004- October 4th 2009.