Once upon a time, there was a girl.
Her name meant Princess,
But she hated it.
She wanted to be the dragon or the knight,
Not the princess.
Wanted to be able to control her destiny,
So she took a writing class.
And suddenly she was free.
She was no longer the accidental prisoner,
Like the prince whose mother put him to sleep by accident
While she was trying to get rid of the princess that would one day
Save him.
No longer was she bound by the stuffy rules,
The chains that bound her hands and tongue
No longer suffocated by essays dictated by MLA and TEELCON and heaps of research
But free to tell her stories.
And the stories of others too.
Stories of people both real and fictional,
Like the one about the cheerleader who wanted to become a writer
Or the fallen god with strange dreams,
one after another of people trying to kill him with a hammer.
I guess you can tell which is which there.
Sometimes she wished that she could have written more,
Like why the boy who had the Cat that Never Was always called his love “Angel”
And their whole story, for that matter,
And the one about the Dragon Born and her world.
But she knew that that would all come in time, and had fun with what she could do.
And sometimes she didn’t know what to write, after so long of not being able to,
But then fun things came out of that too.
Like narwhals,
And cats
And dogs
And dragons
And Fosters Home for Imaginary Friends quotes.
Thanks for that Lisa.
She wrote about things that she didn’t want to,
About her past and the pain,
And she wrote about things that she wanted to,
Like the change that the world so desperately needs.
But the point was that she wrote.
After so long of having nothing,
Staring at the paper without a word because she was bound to the rules
Bound to ideas that were not completely her own,
but another’s,
and page counts,
and having to speak with a voice that was not hers,
but now she could. 
So she wrote.
She wrote her heart out,
Poured it into the pages that she charged through without worry for the first time in ages,
Whispered, yelled, screamed her words,
As if to make sure that she could even still use them.
And she found that she could.
And through them she was finally free again.
Now I’m guessing that you already know
That the girl in the story is me.
For so long I struggled with writing
Because the voice that I was using wasn’t my own
But someone else’s,
forced into my throat by the classes that I’ve had to take.
but now those days are gone,
And I can be me again.