I love the way the words look, all of a piece on the parchment beneath my hands, weaving my thoughts into a tapestry, like a spider weaving a web.I love the way I can make them rhyme.
I love the smell of the very ink I use.
When I write I am the real me. I am whole, beautiful, filled with a sense of pleasure and worth.
Why can`t they all just leave it to be?
Hang a Thousand Trees with Ribbons : The Story of Phillis Whitley; Ann Rinadi
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