I started writing poems when someone broke my heart for the very first time when I was fifteen. I did not quiet understand how I felt but I knew I needed to get something out, or it felt like I was going to burst like a popcorn being cooked. My heart felt like it was being smothered and I choked with words while my tears built up and traveled down my cheeks. I wept in silence. However, I wanted not to be weak because I had an ego that I inherited from my father. Crying to me meant giving up and letting the boy step all over me once more, and the thought disgusted me even when I knew I was already defeated. Until I turned to a pen and blank pages. Then there was a landslide of words. It felt great and I felt a feeling of relief. Empty notebooks and different colored pens became my bestfriends and I began to play with words. I watched my pen dance through different rhythms and beats of my heart. I watched my penmanship change depending on the direction of my thoughts. I uncovered something great and something that I wanted to treasure for a long time, something that I would not trade for anything.