Last Breath to my Daughter

I want to be able to say- I wrote.

I wrote when I was sad,
when I was happy,
and when it seemed that I felt nothing.
I taught others to write.
I wrote and felt free.
I listened to music and learnt how to play piano.
I wrote songs and sang them to escape.
I walked barefoot and always sat on the floor.
I fell in love and lived simply.
I wrote to breathe.
I learnt every single word in English literature.
I wrote poetry and created words of my own.
I wrote a novel.
I got it published.
It made a difference.
I prayed.
Wrote prayers of my own.
I taught them to you.
God listened me.
I listened to Him.
I wrote about Him.
Others read it.
It made a difference.
I cared for others.
They knew I did.
They could feel it, and they returned it.
I was warm in winter and cool in summer.
I wrote.
I composed symphonies.
I allowed my fingertips to waltz upon the keys of my laptop
and the keys of my piano.
I was devout to the stillness.
I wrote within its midst.
I laughed in its presence.
I lived in its bliss.
I lived a full life because I lived my own life.

I was a writer.